Steel and Gold
by iSaint
Summary: Goblins are scary, so scary that no one wants to deal with them, so they get their banks and underground and their sharp blades, and the wizarding world only deals with them if they have to, but now, now Harry Potter has been raised by Goblins, and the words "culture shock" are just not nearly dire enough. See Full Summary inside. Try to get past the first chapter. It gets better.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Prologue**

**A/N:**

Full Summary: The Goblin race is feared and misunderstood, not because people haven't tried, but because when the powerful are also insane, it is easier to let them carve out their own part of the world and let you carve out your own. This was the sound reasoning of the Wizards and Witches that finally stopped the carnage of the last Great Goblin Rebellion, so named by them in their bitterness. But such wisdom is finally come undone, as the child of Prophecy, governed and blessed/cursed by Time comes from them.

Essentially: Harry was raised by the Goblins, and they are not just misunderstood. Unlike most stories, these Goblins are going to operate by a set of rules that aren't just a bit weird or spooky. Instead, this will be an attempt to create a fairly functional society that would scare the shit out of wizards enough that trying to really delve into their culture is pretty much suicide, but seeing as how if they can't at least begin to understand Harry then the whole of England gets put under the heel of the most powerful and evil Dark Wizard this side of the millenia. So, sacrifices must be made, and well, culture shock is a pretty tame way to put it.

* * *

Silk, as he was known by the public, was so even tempered, so mellow, that he had the unfortunate but prestigious job of dealing with wizards. Insults and the stupidity of others flowed off of him like oil on steel. He had dealt with wizards and humans and others of unsavory and horrific sense for decades now. He even had a nickname, though not one that he cherished, Bridge he was called by some. Strong, though at first glance it seemed impossible, and, somehow, able to connect two places that had been separated by a rift. He had accepted the nickname though, knowing that its purpose was not to flatter but to describe, to be another name. Many had commented that only time itself being rendered into a fit unsuitable would cause him distress, and while such a description may have given a good idea of Silk's general attitude and disposition; it was, also unfortunately, not true.

Standing in the room of one Vernon Dursley, Silk was becoming enraged. Around him, the beautiful home was tinged in red to his eyes. The soft curtains that had been pulled shut once he had made his way, forcefully, into the home cut out the light that would have made this, quite possibly, a cheery place, though after learning what he had just learned "cheery" was never a word he would use for this den of sludge and grass. He stood near the door, not wanting to set himself further into this place, his hands hovering to the sides of a chair that was clearly too big for him, but still maybe not too big for the cloud-like man that dwelled here. There was a fire roaring, and from that Silk had his only comfort, though it also angered him that one such as this was drawing benefit from Fire. Oh no, Silk wasn't one to normally induce the curse of cold upon another, but then again, Silk was angry.

He wasn't just irritated, nor was he "pissed" as the English wizards sometimes said, he was livid, and he thoroughly felt his own blood could we be used in the forges of The Smith it was boiling so hot. However, these next few minutes were important, and so, he simply ran his fingers over the back of a chair, doing his best to convey the insult to the fat man who seemed shocked by the proposition in front of him.

Silk had just offered to take the young Harry Potter, of the Potter Fortune, under the Goblin Lineage. And this fat human, seemed to be caught between his thunderous dislike of Silk's ancestors and the glee of getting rid of such a person. Silk raged quietly within, waiting an answer.

Vernon Dursley was an arrogant man. Arrogant of his superficial looks, his character, his importance, and his place in the grand scheme of all things but he was also not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially since he had absolutely deserved each and every one of those gifts, in his own mind at least. So now, confronted with such a vile thing come bearing such a wonderful gift, he could only say, "Yes."

* * *

And with that word, a series of scrolls and papers were presented to Vernon, who did not read it, as it had been written by a short thing, and such a thing could probably barely write anyway. He just wanted it out of his house, along with the no good child that had been dumped upon his family. Looking up from the last form, Vernon signed it with a condescending grin, spoke slowly and said, "Done. Now if you could just leave." He pointed the way with a chubby arm.

Silk took the fat man's arm off at the elbow, his blade bright and bright and bright with the blood gleaming off of it. The man began to scream, and Silk had the swift, swift, swift pleasure of thrusting his blade into the oaf's throat, cutting him off before he began. Ah, what a joy it would have been to actually do that. For his entire line of ancestry to have been removed for the insult and pains it had given to one whose line was governed and blessed/cursed by time itself. And yet, Silk would simply have to appease such governance by ending this man's male line.

And so, with a light step and quick hands that lifted a few items, just to add further insult, Silk made his way up to the boy's room, Dudley, and quickly ended his life as well, his blade sharp, sharp, sharp against the wood and comfort of young flesh.

Coming down the stairs, Silk held the baby in his left hand as his right pilfered more items, in a sense, now that Vernon and Dudley were dead this all belonged to the baby that slept quietly in the crook of his arm. And so, he would have some of it, but not much, the taint of those two upon the metal here would probably be great, and seeing as how the baby could not carry much, it would not be appropriate.

Heading out the door, Silk reflected upon his name and turned back to the house. What many people did not understand was that silk, while soft and pleasant, could also be used to strangle and kill, and it did so too soft to hear. Silk hunkered down with his new charge, lighting the house on fire, and threw the cutlery and other various items upon the soon blazing furnace. These fires would probably be hot enough to burn away any lingering trace. And in his arms, Harry Potter giggled as the light danced over his face.

**A/N**

**Should just take a moment to say that the whole Goblin idea is not new, but I did suddenly decide to start writing this quite suddenly while reading a different story. So props to Robst and his story Harry Crow.**

**Also for a bit of a rant, feel free to stick around.**

Rant:

Okay, guys, here's the deal. If you want to have an internally consistent story, then the blatant racism against the Goblins needs to make sense. There are really only two ways for this to be true: 1. The dominant powers that be, meaning the wizarding government and those who are its head, are absolutely doing their everloving best to totally fuck over the poor Goblins in every single way they can. They want their banks run well, and they just do not give a shit what they need to do to get those banks run cheaply. Which also sort of means that while you can have Good Wizards, they are also hugely racist wizards. I'm not super down with that. Dumbledore, from his canon picture really does seem to give two shits about creatures, from the Centaurs to the House Elves. And I don't really want a world that I'm writing to just be, "well, fuck, everyone is racist, let's fix that." It isn't a very interesting problem. So here is number 2. The Goblins are so scary and weird that trying to understand them is a better way of committing suicide then shooting yourself in the face with an Avada Kedavra. And it turns out that as long as the Goblins get to run their banks and no one goes very far underground then no one has to engage in a fucking long and bloody ass war that decimates the wizard and the goblins (but for whatever reason the goblins are more than willing to carry on). So... no one has tried to really understand them, maybe a few people have, and I'm sure their deaths are pretty amusing, heck, maybe even a few of them did well, wrote books and then the Goblins killed them and burned the books for sharing secrets, or maybe, just maybe, the people who did well, shut the fuck up, and went to their grave with a few cool secrets and an even greater appreciation for just how scary goblins are. I'm going with option number 2, cause I like internally consistent worlds.

if you do ever find something I've written and you go, "Why the fuck did they do that when they could have done this!?" please let me know. There's, like, a 75% chance I'll totally change the story and re-do it all just so that it all makes sense, cause that is what I am super into. Thanks for reading!  
-ian


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**

**Do people prefer Author Notes at the beginning or the end?**  
**A person reviewed the first chapter, saying, "It doesn't make sense!" I do hope that it all will at some point, and I will do my best to try and give you clues. If you want to ask specific questions feel free to do so, whether in a review or in a PM (PM would probably be easiest though). Be warned, I will probably answer your question, and that might very well spoil things for you. I also might not, who the fuck knows? Not me. **  
**Kuro Marfoir is a bit of a ridiculous name but I do have a reason, if that helps at all. **  
**Again, if you see anything and you say to yourself, "That doesn't make sense at all!" Please do message me somehow. I will answer, and if you are correct I will probably change the story to fit your observation. I like things to make sense, to be internally consistent. **

* * *

Chapter 2:

Kuro Marfoir vibrated with energy, his black hair seemingly charged with the same excitement as it stood nearly on end, belying its short cut with its heartfelt try to extend in all directions. He was dressed in a suit, the deep black of it matching his hair perfectly. The suit was elaborate and lush in its design, silver strands worked their way through the sleeves and down the sides, all interconnecting and growing more elaborate as they made their way down, although at the top they all seemed to come from a single point near the nape of his neck. The shirt and pants were also black, but while the shirt was unadorned yet clearly of high quality, it was the pants that drew attention. They continued the pattern from the suit's coat, and by the time the eye wandered down to the end of the pants that silver was overwhelming. The black only peeking out in complicated designs until reaching the cuff of the pants that were completely silver. The whole outfit went together splendidly, rich and designed to draw the eye down, although if one allowed their eye to be pulled in such a direction they would find shoes that seemed curiously practical. They might also find that their eyes, drawn by the design on the pants would be pulled away from the slight bulge that spoke clearly of a sword, somehow hidden.

And yet if you did notice that sword, a person might say, "Well, I've find his sword." And while they might be right, they might also forget to think that there might be more secrets hidden, seeing as how they had already found one.

Marfoir twitched, staying mostly still in complete disregard with what his body seemed to want. He had been waiting for hours for it all to begin, and he was very excited. Maybe excited wasn't the right word for it thought, maybe greedy? Marfoir mulled it over in his mind a bit more and finally settled on the two combined, nothing like a good alloy to fix a problem. He tried to settle back on his heels and continue his waiting game, but just at that moment, the screech of a train whistle blew through the station where Marfoir stood.

The station was marvelous. A beautiful construction of metal and steel, put together in a pleasing way that also gave room and comfort to those who inhabited it. There was no natural light though, which was perfectly fine for Marfoir, seeing as how he was pretty used to being underground, but still, he knew that an artfully placed sky-light or two could have really made everything click together. It would have also helped illuminate his mad dash to the train itself, passing in between large groups of wizards and witches and their children, many of whom whispered and pointed at his blurring shape that was making its way to the train itself.

The train was far too large to carry, so it couldn't be anyone's, and that meant that if he could just get his hands on some of it. There had to be some great steel in there, maybe even tungsten, or titanium, although he wasn't sure if the wizards had gotten their heads out of their collective asses enough to realize the great perks of titanium, and maybe, just maybe if he was lucky there would be some spellworked metals. They probably would have been by Goblins anyway, so it would be all the better to "return" some of it.

Marfoir twitched and skittered around even more groups of magical folk, once again impressed with the station, its floors providing wonderful traction, and while it was big it was also interesting enough that covering the meters upon meters to get to his destination wasn't boring. His eyes had been roaming along a particularly strong and straight pillar when suddenly the billowing of white and gold cloaks caught his attention, seeing as how they were directly in his way, Marfoir pivoted, crouched, and then exploded off the ball of his foot. His nearly 90 degree angle shift left the two men, who were wearing gold of all things, a bit flat footed, and as Marfoir put several wizarding families between himself and the gold cloaks, quickly ducking his way toward the center of the platform where the train was braking itself to a stop, the screech and tension of metal and gears and magic thick in the air.

Marfoir breathed it all in, and paused, a mistake indeed, as a writhing lump of ropes appeared above him and descended upon his frame. He was able to stay standing, but the ropes were like metal, not giving an inch. Marfoir smiled at that. Here was something useful to learn.

And so Marfoir waited patiently for the humans to arrive. They moved slowly, their shuffling gaits, making little use of the wonderful platform and its loving traction. Marfoir looked down once again, winking at the floor itself, knowing he might have use of it quite soon. The slow gait of the two men, in their gold, was making him impatient. His hands were tied down to his sides, but he could still move slightly, and so, with a flick of a wrist, he was suddenly holding a knife and began to work through the ropes that bound him. While impressive in their strength, it was hardly a surprise that the magical bonds of a wizard were not keyed to be able to deal with something as mundane as a knife. Although Marfoir knew intimately that what he was holding was not mundane at all. Still, he stopped chewing through the bonds with the Goblin steel right before he would be freed from their constraint, letting a finger caress the blade before making it disappear into his sleeve once again. The men were finally in front of him.

Aurors Ribald and Chestshire had worked, minimally, with Goblins before, but they weren't quite sure what to do with this young man. Not only had they been charged to use the utmost caution in making sure he got on the train and found his compartment, but they hadn't been told of his identity, why he was so dangerous, or why someone so dangerous was being taken to a school filled with the best and brightest of England.

And this was something that certainly rankled the two. One did not struggle and fight his way to the elite, be given your auror robes, and still have to operate in the dark. They were supposed to be at a high enough level that they were told things, but through their struggle to get where they were they had also learned a lot about their Chief, the indomitable Bones, who wouldn't have sent them questing in the dark without a damn good reason. So it had been with a bitter taste that they had accepted their orders and own ignorance and made their way to Platform 9 and 3/4ths.

Their introduction to their target had been a bit more exciting than they had expected. His rapid dash away had been, at first, quite unexpected, and they had both braced themselves for a serious fight. But then Chestshire had casted a fairly simple spell, and the young man, dressed to the nines, had stopped, smiled, and then just kept on smiling. Although for an instant, Ribald had sworn a burst of anger had gotten past the smile, as the kid's eyes had darted to his auror robes.

But still, the kid just stood there, seemingly happy about his confinement by the ropes that Chestshire had conjured, not to actually stop the kid, but just to make him pause, and yet...  
Regardless, they had their orders and now was time to follow through on it.

"Sir..." The kid ignored the prompt to give his own name. "We are Aurors (the kid snickered at this), Aurors Ribald and Chestshire, and we are here to escort you, for your safety and others, to your compartment on the train."

The boy cocked his head a bit too far to the side to be comfortable, "So I just need to get to that compartment?"

The aurors looked at each other, nodded, and before they had even turned back to the kid, there was a flash of something bright, the ropes were on the floor, and both aurors were on the ground. Launching himself from the floor Chestshire tried to put eyes on the kid, but saw nothing, only to try and take a step forward and fall again, noticing the ropes that he had conjured for the kid now tangling up his own feet, as well as the feet of his partner. As Chestshire's eyes rose, they also widened in surprise, the kid had somehow managed to cut out some of the gold embroidery of his partner's auror's robe, and as he turned his own eyes upon himself, he noticed the same thing had been done to him.

With a growl, both Ribald and Chestshire dismissed the conjured ropes and leapt to their fight, not hurt but their pride black and blue, not at all like the proud white and gold-ish robes they had donned this morning. "Ah," Chestshire thought, "Why do I only get poetic when I am getting my ass kicked." And with that they were stalking their way through the train station, while a certain young lad was already on the train, letting the pieces of auror robe he had cut and snatched burn away in his fingertips.

* * *

After some time, Marfoir was able to finally find the compartment the two aurors had talked about. He could still barely believe they had been wearing gold, weren't they supposed to be law enforcement? And not just the foot soldiers, but some sort of elites? Regardless, they had been fairly easy to get rid of, and now he was on this marvelous train looking for a place to sit.

All around him young witches and wizards pressed upon him, but none of them tried to grab him or his stuff, so he let them move pass unhindered. He did manage to fletch a few things, but he quickly grew bored, as not a single person so far had even seemed to notice, and he just did not need anymore watches, rings, or keys. One or two provided some amusement by being enchanted, but he was able to coax such protections to leave. None of them were even lethal protections! This world was indeed strange. But it was only a glancing thought of such before his attention was once again diverted. He was stepping over to another carriage, when he caught a glimpse of the way the compartments were connected. There was some fine steel down there, and Marfoir lowered himself down to a crouch, getting his face as close as possible to the interlocking gears and bits of metal. Some of it was moving a bit unnaturally, so there was, indeed, some spellworked metal here. It didn't seem like there was a lot, instead it appeared that there might only be a bit of a thread of metal, connecting the compartments together, but even such a small thread would almost certainly be enough to make the escape of a compartment from the rest of the vehicle downright impossible.

Marfoir reached a hand down and lightly caressed the steel and iron that bucked and jumped under his hand as it sped away on the rails. It was warm to the touch, and a bit of electricity jumped to his hand, creating a numb but pleasant sensation. This was quite the train, Marfoir chuckled to himself, this was already making up for the unpleasantness with the aurors.

Continuing onward though, Marfoir made his way through the compartments, trying to find what the aurors had told him of. It wasn't until he had made it to the very last compartment, the last few completely empty, that he found the place the aurors had talked about.

He was, at first, stunned and shocked. In front of him was the door to a new compartment, the last one, and upon the door to such a wonderful place was a sign. The sign read, "Kuro Marfoir's, previously known as Harry Potter's, Compartment". Marfoir could not believe it, and he quickly found his blood reacting to the decisive insult that had been paid. How could they separate this into parts, to take the whole and split it? What kind of madman would build something up to be so beautiful, and then let another or, even worse, the same man tear it down again. It would be lonely, closed off, isolated from its lineage, the ones that held it together, who held its hand, and gave it purpose, sense, and direction.

Marfoir immediately ripped the sign away from the door. And to think this was all supposed to be for him; he had some small measure of fault in this, and that, more than anything, made it all the worse. If he had known such desecration would be committed by his arrival into the wizarding world, he would have disavowed all knowledge of it and torn the choice of it from his own progeny. It would have been a lesser crime than what had been committed. And if only it had nothing to do with it, then he could have written it off as the foolishness and cruelty of wizards, who know of nothing and yet do not understand it. But he was complicit, and this stained him as well, harsh taint that seeped in and separated and cut and isolated. And so he would have to try his best to undo the error of these humans and their arrogance.

* * *

Fred and George Weasley were unparalleled in only one thing. It was not wit, nor skill, nor magical power, or even their attunement to each other. It was, instead, a most powerful facet of their beings that had lead them to be unbelievably frustrating to authority, the best comrades you could ask for, and quite possibly, the worst siblings that could be gifted to a family. They were keen observers and not much missed their sight or smell or touch or taste or hear.

So when it became apparent that there was, for some reason, no one occupying the last two compartments of the normally full and bustling Hogwarts Train, the twins seemed to be the only ones who noticed. And so, seeing as how they were done making sure that most of their friends and then some would be having a fun and interesting ride to school, they set off to find exactly what it was that was going on.

As they made their way to the second of the last compartments, eyes focused on the door rapidly approaching them, they both, at the same time, decided that their good friend Lee Jordan probably could use some company, turned around, and started walking the way they came from. Surprisingly enough, it was rare that the two of them acted in perfect unison. That isn't to say that they didn't often come to the same conclusions, communicated only with looks, do things nearly at the same time, and generally mimic each other so well that their own mother had given up truly telling them apart, but they had, never to their knowledge moved perfectly together with the same thought. And so, while the idea of giving some comfort to Lee Jordan through the spontaneity of a great prank still appealed to them, they did both observe the fact that they had just thought of this at exactly the same time and had moved at exactly the same time. So they stopped.

Turning to each other, the twins both adopted looks of reflection, and then, at almost the same moment shook their heads, "No." Neither had remembered a time that they had moved with such eerie precision, even when trying to. And so, something was afoot.

It begs to be noticed that in the wizarding world, the gut is something that is almost implicitly trusted, when people can be memory wiped, however rare, and the constant flow and flux of magic beguiles people constantly with its power, then sometimes the benefit of rational thought bleeds away a bit. So, while the twins may have very well fully accepted their thought of helping Lee Jordan intellectually, that thought, combined with the simultaneous movement, was doing some weird things to their guts. George was feeling a bit peaky, maybe a bit nauseous. And Fred was feeling some butterflies, if unusually energetic ones. And that was much more the usual, similar feelings, under a similar condition, with near perfect mirrored movements of them both turning back around to take another look of the door they had abandoned for poor, bored Lee Jordan.

It should also be noted that the main drawback of a gut feeling, is that your gut may well know that something is wrong, but it surely has no idea if further investigation will be good or bad for you. Something that Fred and George had learned before and were about to learn again.

Striding back again, the twins were once again imbued with a thought, this time that their brother, Ron, was probably doing something stupid, and they should be there to take pictures. Whatever type of spell this was, it was amazingly good. The twins were almost certain that Ron was doing something stupid, and that, even though the thought was fake, they would like to take pictures. But, the twins turned around again, and this time, they very slowly stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, moving an inch at a time. And, when they were two feet from the door, another thought, which turned them around.

They went back again and again, testing new ways, sticking out their hands, sticking out a stick that their hands were touching, throwing dust bombs and then walking, all manner of weird and surprisingly informational things. By the time they were done, they were reasonably sure that there was a line magically burned into the wood that went in a full 360 degrees, so walking across the ceiling would not be helpful. They also realized that such a spell, so artfully done, so convincing, and so painstakingly placed, meant that whatever was on the other side of that door would probably be super-mega cool (or horrendously dangerous).

So, Fred and George, once again, managed to break a high level spell, guarding something incredibly dangerous and/or cool with their own particular brand of genius. They took a bunch of Knuts from their pockets and, quite easily, transfigured it all into thin lines, roughly half an inch longer than the line that had been magically imbued into the wood that separated them from whatever was behind that door.

At first they also transfigured the lines of metal to have legs and have the little metal creatures crawl their way to where the line, based on their tests, must lay. But the creatures also seemed to fall to the folly of the line, their magic and what little sentience they had confused, so that they started lining up a good foot away from where Fred and George wanted them to be.

After a frustrating amount of trial and thought later, they were both struck by a thought that contained the two pieces to the puzzle. They were thinking far too much like wizards. So, George started putting some regular old glue on the metal pieces while Fred, using a plain old stick he had conjured, slid them to where the magical line was. The metal, no longer magical, with the stick, not magical at all, and the glue, similarly not magical, managed to do it, and Fred and George thanked their insane father and his muggle obsession.

And as they walked through the door, into the second to last compartment, they promptly cursed their father, having just suddenly wished they hadn't been raised by a man who did not always think as a wizard.

* * *

Kuro Marfoir, or as the stupid wizard had called him, Harry Potter, sat in the second to last compartment, bleeding quite profusely from his wrist. Arrayed in front of him carefully were two pieces of metal, and all around that were bits of pieces of dirt, clay, and other bits of metal of unknown origin. It didn't actually look for much, except that the blood dripping from Marfoir's wrist was wrapping itself around the various bits and pieces, shining with a dark, bluish glow.

It had taken him a while to gather the necessary ingredients, and even longer still to prepare himself for the ritual that would, hopefully, bind the isolated parts together again. The vapour coming from his blood, that had now pooled across all of the materials was looking good. The blood had created a full circle, extending from where it dripped from Marfoir's wrist to in front of him, with the bits of pieces of metal and dirt all caught in its small river. A hissing sound came from Marfoir's wrist, bits of bloody steam gasped out, and then his wound was gone, sealed without a scar. The last bit of blood dripped down, and with its addition, the blood then started to draw into itself, carrying the materials that had been laid out for it. Marfoir watched it intently, another knife, this one longer and much more savage looking, appearing in his hand.

The blood was drawing itself up, the bits and pieces that was caught in it being sent to the top of the lump that was slowly forming on the compartment floor. It rose slowly, the blood thick and shiny in the bright light that illuminated the space. Slowly with surprising grace, it positioned the scraps that had been given to it into a mask, not quite a face that stared back at Marfoir. It rose quicker now, creating a semblance of a being that was far larger and seemingly powerful than the components that had made it. Marfoir stayed sitting, his knife still out, his eyes watching the figure build itself up, becoming larger and large but staying just as graceful. It warped and warbled, a few tendrils of it being pulled down from the effect of gravity upon it, but it kept its shape for the most part, those pieces being pulled down slowly getting reabsorbed back into the main body, as further up more parts were pulled down, creating an oddly hypnotic wave of blood that swooped down and then disappeared, only to reappear once again. It seemed to dance in the stillness, its many arms, if you could call them that, caressing all around it, the bits of mask that might be eyes looking at the lights and rail, the wood and doors, the metal and earth that made up the compartment.

Marfoir, suddenly, was on his knees, knife still clutched in his hand, eyes following the eccentric circles and shapes made by the form of blood and scraps. Then, he suddenly seemed to relax, the entity born of his blood stepping backwards, its mask of a face turning in on itself to peer out, what had just been, the back of its head. It moved steadily forward, the hypnotic dance of its many limbs and tendrils never stilling as it took up even more of the space, somehow growing larger from nothing. And just as Marfoir had let his eyes begin to drop, in respect and relief, just as the nebulous being touched the door to the very last compartment, Fred and George Weasley, bright with their recent accomplishment, threw open the door from behind Marfoir and stepped into the second to last compartment.

* * *

Marfoir was a blur of motion instantly getting to his feet as he drove his knife into his left thigh, thinly slicing his pants to reveal his skin beneath, but he did not stop there, the knife continued to plunge, cutting his own skin and parting it to reveal a piece of metal that was just under his epidermal, seemingly placed there. With one swift motion that drew a hurt breath from his lungs, he ripped the metal piece from his leg and threw it at the figure of blood that was now vibrating harshly, its many tendrils and limbs arcing wildly as its mask of a face withdrew in itself and back out again to look upon the intruders. As the metal flew through the air though, Marfoir was already turning to the twins, who were still halfway through their shock at seeing a being of blood roil in anger. Their heads had only begun to look at Marfoir before he was before them, once more taking his knife and cutting two thin slashes on the twins' arms. The blood was in the air and then, somehow, caught by Marfoir before the two young men could even defend themselves, and as Marfoir turned away from them the twins crouched back, beginning to draw their wands.

Marfoir was a bit busy though, adding a drop of his own blood to the sphere of the twins' blood that he held in his hand, he quickly threw the concoction at the bloody figure, that had, much to Marfoir's relief, been distracted by the piece of metal that he had ripped from himself and had lodged itself, oddly, in the wood paneling that was just to the right of the door to the last compartment. Luckily it had been nearly at proto-eye view of the liquid creature, and so it was still looking at the item as the mixture of his blood and the twins' blood hit it. The blood was instantly absorbed, and the quailing of its limbs quieted, as it reached out and plucked the piece of metal, which had been nearly buried completely into the wooden wall, like a regular man pulling off a post-it note. It then passed through the door, caressing its surroundings as it did, before finally disappearing from view with a sound of deep and brittle purring.

Marfoir let out a deep breath of relief, his eyes lingering on the door to the last compartment before he whirled on the two intruders who had nearly broken the ritual. They jumped a bit, but stared back at him, blood from his slash still bleeding slightly from their arms, wands raised against him. Marfoir simply stared back before uttering a single word, "Twins?"

At this, Fred and George each shifted slightly, lessening the bending of their knees as it seemed this young man seemed to want to talk, not fight, despite his earlier attack. They had seen how his and their blood had seemed to calm whatever horror had been unleashed upon the compartment, and with it gone they definitely felt safer. So, after taking a moment to recollect themselves, they nodded nearly as one, and then heard, "Well-fallen, then."

And as they looked at each other, each trying to puzzle the curious phrase, Marfoir was suddenly upon them, their wands twisted out of their grasps and plunged into their robes' pockets, as their legs were kicked out from beneath them, and then they were bodily thrown from the compartment, landing in a heap in the third to last compartment's floor. Dazed, they brought their heads up, just in time to see the crazed, young man spit out, "Puffs and clouds of bodies and brains, your arrogance serves no purpose here, wizards" before slamming the door shut.  
The twins slowly got up, still bleeding from their arms, which they each healed for the other. They turned then, both facing, full on, the other and began to whisper and talk and mull and mumble. They discussed a great many things, standing in that compartment, one away, presumably, from whoever that crazed and bloody, in both senses, man was. They talked about beings of blood, how fast people could or could not move, knives, and metal, but what they mostly talked about was about whether or not this newcomer would actually be at Hogwarts, and, if so, would it be worth it to try and prank him.

They had not yet reached an answer by the time the Hogwarts train pulled to a stop, even though they had not moved, and they had been talking the entire time.


	3. Chapter 3

Marfoir traveled down the path that the fourth years had gone down. He had trailed behind them, hoping that by not being in contact with any of the arrogant wizards he might not be forced to kill one, or worse yet, have another instance of taint and shadow forced upon his gods and their artifacts. He had, thankfully, been able to repair his pants quite easily, the steel thread that was woven through them responding to him nicely. He would have been quite irritated had his arrival to Hogwarts been marred by such a thing.

The trail itself, wound down from the Hogwarts train, which he was sad to leave. Luckily, his ritual had managed to undo the damage caused by whatever mad wizard had entertained the absurd notion of trying to gift someone a part of a whole. Marfoir was glad that the two twins had not twisted the ritual to a travesty. He would have never forgiven himself if the beauty of that train had been besmirched.

It really had been a great train; its gears and cogs and bars all moving at a speed that most could never catch. He had been greatly impressed by its smoothness, only bumping and buckling due to its own whims, not the whims of the tracks it traveled on. The remaining ride had done quite a bit to calm his nerves and rest his body. It had also given him the time needed to find a spare Bone and reattach it to the under skin of his thigh. He had the barest whisper that the train was happy with its new toy, and while it might be centuries before it could incorporate it into its structure and purpose, he figured it a fitting gift for the travel, though it would not have been his first choice. Bones were exceedingly hard to come by for him, and he did not possess the uncaring skin and nerves of a full Goblin, loathe though he was to admit that.

Still, as he took one last look at the train and continued his trek, he was looking forward to what other manner of transportation he would be taking to reach the great gates of Hogwarts. He could see it clearly in the night, the great fires of its towers reaching far into the night, and he could also feel its power, even from here. The earth around it trembled with its touch, the undulations slow and careful, but still pleasurable to the surrounding area. He did not know the full story of how it was that Hogwarts had came to be, but he strongly suspected that Goblins had been part of it. The wizards he knew of now were not ones to delve so deeply into the earth, content with their wooden sticks and magical cores. Such arrogance.

Such thoughts were blown from his mind though as he came to the edge of the trail. It had wound down from the large platform that they had disembarked from the train onto. With only a single light, that somehow provided enough illumination, he had watched hundreds of kids make their way down. They had dipped down a trial only to rise again, meeting their way to the edge of the woods that grew thick and proud, and who, it seemed, pressed in on all sides, wanting to reclaim the ground that they had been hewed from. Coming up the hill, Marfoir had been struck by the incredible carriages, which had stolen his breath, but it was the Horses of Ash that had stolen his thoughts.

They were beautiful. Their skin shone with a coal blackness, ash from the hottest fires, with the embers still seeming to burn with a blue flame that peeked out sparingly from behind the blackness of their tough skin. Their wings were nearly impossible to see, their thin blackness consumed nearly in entirety by the night that they were splayed out against.

It only took a moment for Marfoir to get his thoughts back in order and approach the beasts. Apparently a carriage had been held for him because there was only one of them. He did hope that later he might be able to see the whole group of them, but for right now he settled on simple brushing past close to the Horse of Ash while getting into the carriage. Once inside he noticed three other students who all seemed quite nervous about his presence. He paid them no mind, and they remained quiet as he spent the rest of the trip scrambling around the cabin, inspecting the nuts and bolts of the carriage, as well as the intricate designs that had been carved on nearly every revealed surface.

By the time that they had nearly gotten to Hogwarts itself, one of the boys in the carriage seemed likely to speak, only to stop suddenly as a knife, a small pointed one, leapt into Marfoir's hand as he removed some built up dust or some such thing from a particularly wonderful carving on the carriage door's frame. It remained a silent ride after that, that is until the three Hogwarts students made a mad dash for the door to get outside once they had landed.

Once again, Marfoir let them go on ahead before he stepped out of the carriage, giving one last look at the Horse of Ash before continuing on his way to the great fortress that rose before him. A trail of students winded in front of him, all of them dressed in their robes, with their sticks poking out of pockets or holsters, he counted them in the starlight, seeing their weapons so easily put on display was a bit shocking. He had figured once they had gotten out of their muggle clothing they would have hidden their power better, but it was as it always was, wizards were arrogant.

He stepped forward, passing through the gates of Hogwarts, their steel and silver frame gleaming from the combination of torches and moonlight that fell across them, he could only but spare it a glance, before the students ahead of him surged forward, and he sped to follow. It would not look well for him to become lost and then found at the whim of one of these humans. Before he made it to the proper doors into Hogwarts though, he crouched down, lifting a bit of dirt and sod into his hand, compressing it with his fist, and whispering into it, naming himself and his Artisan, his Master, and his Blood. It was no trouble to catch up again, staying a fair distance back, making sure that those around would know that there was a distance he had created. And if one had looked, they might have seen, as he made his way into the actual stone of Hogwarts him sucking a bit of dirt from his right hand, the words he had put into it already disappearing on the wind and ground.

In short order, Marfoir and the students were in the Great Hearth, however, unlike the other students, Marfoir did not sit down at a table of corresponding colors. He, instead, positioned himself at the entrance, dead center and ready. From his left he saw the human witch known as Minerva McGonagall approach him. He let her do so, she would have been made aware of the agreements decided upon between his Artisan and Dumbledore.

"Mr. Marfoir" McGonagall quietly intoned, "I am Professor McGonagall, please allow me to welcome you to Hogwarts." The young man that stared back at her was far too like those students she had loved and taught all those years ago. His eyes, when they had snapped to her had almost stopped her in her tracks, the same green as Lily but with a fire behind them that she had only seen on James' face when he had been in his later years, defending his friends. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part, to project such fierce protective determination unto this Goblin raised boy. She had no idea what his upbringing had been like. She had tried to delve further into Goblin studies, but even the most detailed accounts of them seemed to have no true idea why it was that they responded the way they did. Instead of there being books on how and why it was that Goblins operated, there were literal tomes that dealt with how dangerous they were. Paragraphs and essays about how interaction with Goblins, except at the great bank Gringotts, was a foolhardy measure and that those who did did so at a degree of danger greater than even picking a fight with a dragon.

It had been and was distressing to McGonagall. She had been delving into the studies of Transfiguration for most of her adult life, and she knew that if her knowledge of Transfiguration had been at the level of Goblin knowledge she would have been crippled in her teaching ability. So, she had tried to find a teacher of Goblin History and Culture, assuming it would, at least, be somewhat better than Muggle studies. She had been shocked and displeased to find out that there was no such position at any school she had looked into. It was, apparently, an unstudied field, which was a bit terrifying, especially considering Goblins ran the most prestigious and powerful bank in Western Europe. She had spent the last month trying to find out more information, but the best she had come up with was the hastily copied pages of an incomplete diary, that, at most, simply confirmed that Goblins were indeed dangerous and very different than wizards and witches.

So it was with a bit of trepidation that McGonagall introduced herself to Harry-Marfoir, Dumbledore had been quite firm in his insistence that they not call him by that name, though it pained her to do so. Maybe if he didn't look so much like Lily and James, but no, he did, and she wouldn't let the past stop her from completing her duties in the present.

Marfoir had caught something in the eyes of the Professor before she had continued, "If you would please follow me, Headmaster Dumbledore would like to introduce you to the school." And she let her arm point the way.

For a second Marfoir was concerned that Dumbledore knew more than he should, but that would be impossible. There was no one who would have betrayed him, not on that level certainly. So he allowed himself to be led to the middle of the floor, the students on all sides of him didn't seem to have a very good idea of what was going on. And so it was with a bit of a smirk on his face that Marfoir went to the middle of the Great Hearth of Hogwarts, as Dumbledore, Headmaster, stood up to address those in attendance.

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Hermoine Jean Granger had been excited to be back at Hogwarts. It was a place where, finally, her excelling had been acknowledged and put to good use. Sure, her first two years had been rough. Like those in her Muggle schools, the students had been quite taken aback by a student who loved to study, learn, and harness the resources available. Luckily, the majority of those students did not reside in Ravenclaw, the wonderful and brilliant house she had been sorted into upon arrival as a First Year.

It had also helped that here, knowledge was directly converted into power. In the Muggle world, just because you knew chemistry didn't mean you could then apply that knowledge to those who bullied you, not unless you were going to douse them in acid or set them on fire or blow them up or something. But here, in the wizarding world, learning gave you very real and very scary advantages over those who didn't. Hermoine had first really realized this from an unlikely source. During her first year, she had become tentative friends with one Ron Weasley, and although it didn't really work very well, she did get to learn about his brothers.

Everyone knew about the Weasley Twins, about their pranks, misdirections, and tricks, but what the majority of those people did not know was that the twins also excelled in their classes. They were loud and boisterous to such a degree that no one would ever realize that they turned in every single piece of homework, and the main reason that they hadn't been expelled was primarily due to the fact that many of their tricks as well as their work in the classroom showed them to be capable of huge feats of off brand brilliance that left teachers shaking their heads in bewilderment.

And it had been during her first year, when Hermoine, by chance, had come across the two of them, in an abandoned bathroom (where Hermoine would sometimes go to vent and maybe cry but just a bit!). They were working on some sort of potion, and Hermoine, already distressed, had, without quite knowing it, quietly remarked that if they added that whole Salamander skin they were going to set themselves on fire.

The twins had instantly turned to her, having not noticed her coming in, had turned to each other, and then turned back to her, two similar smiles spreading across their faces in a eerie way. One of them, Hermoine believed it was George, had cut the salamander skin into smaller pieces before adding each one in at a time, gauging the reaction, while Fred had popped up in front of her, shaking her hand and talking about how she was a beautiful, smart, and powerful witch. She had nearly turned the color of their hair.

She had stammered a reply, and to this day she had no idea what she had said, but Fred had taken it in stride, using her fluster and bluster to start asking questions and as her "social centers" had shut down and flashed red lights, her "answering questions" center still had power, it, metaphorically, had many backup generators, and so she had answered the questions, apparently to such satisfaction that the two twins had let her in on a little secret, which turned out to have huge implications for her.

Quite simply it was: If you can out think a wizard you can out hit a wizard. Power in this world was not in the fist, the words, or the body, it was in the wand, and if you were smart you could steamroll your way into whatever and wherever. And as Hermoine had quietly mulled that over, the twins had finished making their potion, thanked her, changed her hair to a illustrious gold, and left. And Hermoine had walked out of that bathroom, distress forgotten, and continued to think about that secret.

Over the next few weeks Hermoine got to see first hand what the twins had meant. Before she had just been aware of the pranks and tricks, knowing they caused frustration and problems for those they targeted, but now she was really looking at them, and she was finding them to be utterly amazing. They were almost never caught, even though everyone knew who had done it, there was just simply little to no proof. And they were combining disciples in electrifying ways, some simple runes to boost a sticking charm so that it sucked things to a wall and got people stuck, and they were adding layers to it to confuse, the sucking charm had magical glue on it, so those who investigated, at first, thought it was the glue doing it, and it wasn't until they had dissipated the glue and stepped forward to further inspect the site which ended with them also being sucked and stuck to the wall that they realized the glue had been a red herring.

Bullies didn't bother the twins, and those who did found themselves going up against a force they could barely comprehend, let alone really bother. It was all just a challenge to the twins, as they used their devastating minds to confound and confuse bullies, teachers, people they didn't like, and people they did like.

And so Hermoine adopted their ways. Not the pranking, no, she would shiver at the simple notion of pranking a teacher, but she had no trouble seeing the smirks and mumbled insults of her classmates as a challenge. She plunged headfirst into making herself simply so good and powerful that it was a horrible idea to even speak ill of her. She helped others, gave advice, and was kind, but she did all of it behind an untouchable line of hard work and power. She, of course, had had people who challenged her, but with a nearly exhaustive list of spells, and the guiding touch of the Weasley twins, who were maybe not friends but valued colleagues, she had been more than prepared to deal with those who had tried to tear her back down.

And now, in her Fourth Year, Hermoine really felt like she was where she was supposed to be. But her inner satisfaction had been dealt quite a blow as she had seen the Twins coming up from the carriages towards the Great Hearth. They both seemed in a state of semi-shock mixed with a seriousness she had only seen glimpses of, usually because of family matters. They also had a slight trail of blood coming from their arms, where it looked almost like something had scratched them. So Hermoine rushed towards them, a hundred questions on her tongue, but really only one concern: were they okay?

By the time Hermoine actually got close enough to them to talk she had calmed down a bit. And so rather than demanding to know what had happened and forcefully healing them, she settled for walking side by side with them and giving them a questioning look that said she had all the time in the world to make them talk about this.

The twins, smart, young men that they were, had a good idea of just how difficult it was to  
dislodge Hermoine from helping them. She was a good friend like that. And so they filled her in, relating, as well as they could, the harrowing events that had happened on the second to last compartment on the train as they entered the Great Hearth of Hogwarts.

So now Hermoine sat, at rigid attention as the young man that the twins had described took position in the middle of the Great Hearth, all attention upon him as Dumbledore stood.

He made a striking figure in the middle of all the color. No one was wearing black the way he was. Sure, some of the students and even teachers here had black robes on, but they had large splashes of their house colors on them. Her own robes sparkled with the bronze and blue of Ravenclaw. Even the Slytherin, who were the most likely to indulge in the darker color pallets, were lavish in their silver and green, to say nothing of the incredibly loud and boisterous gold and red of Gryffindor. Heck, even Snape had large amounts of color on him, although some of it seemed like it was from faulty or messy potions rather than fashion, but still, in the middle of a whirlwind of warmth and color stood a young man that was wreathed in a blacker than night suit, with a threading of intricate patterns running down it, drawing the eyes to his boots where the threading pooled. It was the only color on him, and while it may have been silver it surely seemed harder than silver, much more like steel and the harsh poundings of a forge than the gentleness of jewelry. And suddenly Dumbledore was speaking, and her attention was wrenched from the mysterious young man that had hurt the twins to her Headmaster.

"I want everyone to welcome Mr. Marfoir to the halls and hearths of Hogwarts. He is a student of the fabled Three Schools of Goblins, and he shall be staying here as one of the applicants to the Triwizard Tournament."

Hermoine's head whipped around once more to fix her attention on young man (a goblin?), who was now smirking in the middle of the Great Hearth. Dumbledore was now going on to describe exactly what the Triwizard tournament was, but Hermoine had heard the rumors, and in true Hermoine fashion, done copious amounts of research on the subject. It was just the normal hilariously dangerous school competition, each school getting a champion, and whomever won would get eternal glory and whatnot. But it had always been three schools, Beauxbatons, Durmstrangs, and Hogwarts. Never had there been a fourth school, and certainly never had there been a Goblin school, as far as Hermoine was aware.

Hermoine was also aware that there was almost no research present on Goblins, and that the majority of wizards and witches were so scared of them they didn't like to talk about the "vile creatures" as she had heard so often. Their follow up almost always being, "Don't worry, dearie, the Goblins have their bank; they'll never worry us." Well, apparently that was not the case anymore. There was a Goblin emmissary in Hogwarts, and he would be competing in the first iteration of the Triwizard Tournament that had been held in centuries. Obviously things were changing rapidly, and as Hermoine chewed through thoughts on this those around her were nearly rioting, overtaken by the news of a Goblin in their midsts.

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Marfoir stood in the middle of the Great Hearth as the students around him erupted into whispers, words, and yelling. However, his attention remained focused on Headmaster Dumbledore, who continued to speak, telling the details of the Triwizard Tournament. Eventually the details of what he was talking about was interesting enough to pull the students back to their attentive, quiet selves. Soon everyone was listening to Dumbledore as he explained the rules of the tournament. There was to be a great chalice that they would enter their names into and only students of the appropriate age, 17, would be allowed to do so. At the end of September the chalice would be put on display, allowing those who consider themselves worthy to enter their names. That will also be the day that the two other schools competing, Beauxbatons of France and Durmstrang of the North will be arriving.

Finally, Dumbledore, once again, turned his attention to Marfoir. "Now, Mr. Marfoir, if you would like to take a seat somewhere, you will find Hogwarts to be very accommodating." At this a wide grin spread across Marfoir's face. The Headmaster had not specified where to sit, and he had, as well, implied that Hogwarts would accommodate his needs. Perfect.

Still grinning, Marfoir knelt on the surprisingly warm stones of Hogwart's Great Hearth, there was a bit of gasp around those close enough as a knife appeared in his hand, especially from the twins who recognized it. Then with two quick movements his jacket was undone and underneath his skin, clouded with ash and embers was parted with two cuts from his knife. From below the skin of his own chest seven small stones were removed, his blood not dripping from them but somehow sticking to the rocks. Those in the Great Hearth that knew any sight sharpening spells and had the presence of mind to use them did so. Marfoir kept his smile on, some blood dripping from his chest onto the floor that he kneeling upon. That was unimportant though, his blood still clung to the pieces of metal, as it should, and he gently lowered them to the floor, arraying them as a small triangle that pointed upwards with two a couple of inches away on either side and two spaced evenly apart but a couple of inches below the triangle. With everything in place, Marfoir let his smile leave his face and bent down even further, his face nearly touching the stones of Hogwarts. "Seven aspects I bring to you, to form or fashion in whatever way you see fit. Let none say that the Goblins do not know the ways of gifts or sentience, let none say that we do not know the old ones nor the old numbers, and let none say that we also fall into the isolation and arrogance of wizards. Enjoy these small tokens of fire and ash from the Goblins." And with that Marfoir pressed his hand to his chest, the blood on it smearing his fingers, which he then brought down to delicately trace a circle around the metal he had placed. The circle completed, the stones suddenly began to sink into the stones themselves, his blood on them boiling and a cloud of vapor rising to the ceiling.

Gracefully, Marfoir rose up as the bits of metal sunk away from view, calmly buttoning up his jacket once again, hiding his bleeding chest, he faced Dumbledore once again. "A gift, as expected and now received. Thank you for your hospitality." And with that, Marfoir once again directed his attention to the stones of Hogwarts saying, as if it was absolutely normal, "Would you, perhaps, if it is not too much trouble, allowing me the use of a seat and table upon which to eat?" And just like the seven stones that had sunk into the stone but in reverse an elaborate table and chair were pushed out of the stones, right in front of Marfoir. It was a beautiful piece of stonework, more so than the wooden tables and chairs that the students or teachers sat at. And as it was raised, from no one knew where, Marfoir sat down at the intricate table and chair, and waited for the food to arrive.

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In his office, Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall sat. Neither of them were feeling very cheery, McGonagall, unusually, was slumped into her chair, letting it provide support rather than relying on her impressive backbone. Both of them had been overwhelmed with the presentation of Harry Potter, who only went by Marfoir now. His message had been clear and concise, "I am here under my own power, and this is not your homebase."

Dumbledore had hoped that he could get Marfoir to, at least, sit with his fellow humans, maybe start to converse with those he felt so strongly would help the young man, but it seemed that his plans had been foreseen and countered decisively. He had seemed more than a bit inhuman, whispering to the stones of Hogwarts, blood running down his, surprisingly, ash and ember covered chest. And Dumbledore had felt the reaction of the students, their preconceived notions of Goblins only heightened by the display of feral power and controlled image.

McGonagall, however, was oscillating between the unbearable curiosity of a Transfiguration Professor (Hogwarts could perform transfiguration? Non-sentient Transfiguration? Ritual summoning? Those metal pieces? Blood magic?) and the weariness of now knowing that Harry Potter, son of James and Lily, was gone, replaced by a person or Goblin that had shattered her hopes for being able to repay those two darlings who had given their lives for wizarding-kind.

Both powerful magicians though, eventually came to the same question: How could they convince this new Harry Potter, this Marfoir, to care enough about wizards, a people who did not and would not try to understand Goblins, to fight Voldermort?****

A/N

Yo guys and gals, so here is a bit of ranty rant.

Almost every HP fan fic that i've read that has HP not showing up for a long time, always has hermoine and everyone else just being kind of sad and friends but really not having much impact on the school. That makes no sense to me, especially with Hermoine. Guys, this lady got basilik'd went back to school, helped commit felonies, in the third book, dated Victor Krum in the fourth book, and pretty much spent the 5th, 6th, and 7th books just being a badass (if you remember she got fucking tortured by Bellatrix and then KEPT ON FIGHTING). This girl, if given half a chance, bounces back twice as strong. She has her own problems now, she is not quite the incredibly kind, caring Hermoine we all know, but geez guys, if Harry doesn't show up its not like all his friends just fall into a depressing pit of being shitty at everything. Anyway, hope you enjoy this.  
love and hugs or some such shit,  
ian


	4. Chapter 4

The school was in a state of nervous unrest. There was a Goblin attending and no one seemed to know where he would strike and just how devastating it would be. But that didn't stop anyone from coming up with ideas. The rumor mill at Hogwarts, which some considered to be its own kind of magic, was ruthless in its production of the horrible and the truly terrifying. The table that had been seemingly conjured by the Goblin still stood in the middle of the Great Hearth, with no one even coming close to approaching it. It was just as present in peoples' minds and just as forbidden as Professor Snape's love life, and if the incredible scowl that had been permanently hexed onto said Professor's face was any indicator, he didn't like the competition.

Normally such news would have been quickly pushed to the side, due to the fact that Hogwarts was not a school for pushovers, however, due to the fact that things were only going to get more interesting, what with two new schools suddenly showing up, everyone, everyday was building to a new intensity.

Two new batches of students showing up was already a big deal by itself, but then they were also going to fight, and they would be fighting against one of their own. And all of them would be fighting a bloody Goblin, and who knew what that would be like. And with the fighting came interacting, which immediately led to thoughts of very certain body parts interacting, and now half of the population of Hogwarts was seeing red, both for love of sport and sporting at love.

The other half was seeing with a bit more clarity, and almost all of them were trying to reconcile the horrifying imagery and unknown-ness of Goblins with the striking figure that had proclaimed himself one in the Great Hearth. Many of them had considered it, at first to be a lie, but the resulting announcements of the Headmaster, mixed with the frightening magic that had had been conjured by the young man with the knife like smile had sent half of them into a mild panic and the other half into a not so mild swoon.

Even Hogwarts itself seemed to be excited. It was tough to say if it was due to the Triwizard Cup that thrummed with its own power, deep within the stones, or if it was the anticipation of even more students to protect and encourage to thrive, or if it was just the normal jitters of an old castle getting itself ready for another exciting year. But then again, as the weeks wore on, it seemed to only get more excited as Hogwarts had a small figurine wander its halls and hearths, marching to a thrum and vibration that began deep in its foundations.

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Ron Weasley was especially rambuncuous. He had, the day after the startling proclamations, learned that his brothers, the Twins, had encountered this new Goblin terror, and they had been injured by his lunacy! The most worrying aspect of it had not been the nature of their injuries, but the fact that the twins had seemed to be genuinely shocked and rocked by the experience. The two young men who had purposely ingested a piece of Salamander skin to see if it would let them breathe fire, and had, because of that, spent nearly a week without being able to speak and eat, and then they had done it again to make sure it wasn't a fluke. These were his brothers, and he had honestly thought, after seeing that debacle, that nothing could actually shake them. Maybe they could be annoyed, or pushed off balance for a moment, but to be actually shaken? No, he would have denied that. His brothers weren't human, they were avatars of some sort of horrible god of mischief, birthed by his mother to be a constant punishment to him, Ron Weasley, who certainly didn't deserve it.

And now, here Ron Weasley was, torn between passions. He knew that something should probably be done, but he wasn't sure if it was worth it. Plus, if he went his friends would definitely get drawn into it, and while he was certainly headstrong, ask anyone, he had slowly tempered such straightforwardness with a modicrum of concern for his friends, if not himself. And his pals, tighter than a dragon's jaws were the cheeky Seamus, the cynical Dean, the humorous Bryant, and, hopefully, virginal Ginny. His sister tagging along had been quite the bother at first, especially since he was overly concerned with the idea that she might be a leak of information to his mother, who would kill him just for his language if nothing else. Those worries had been squashed the first time he had seen Ginny get truly mad; she had unleashed a hellstorm of swearing and cursing that had left goosebumps on his flesh. Plainly, she would not be ratting him out, because as much as Mother Weasley hated her boys messing about, as she put it, she simply would not abide a lady speaking in such a way.

Her addition to the group had turned out to do a lot of good actually. If it hadn't been for her pestering him constantly, and the belief of his friends (read as: smirking and telling him to put his money where his mouth was) he wouldn't have tried out for quidditch in his 2nd year and made reserve Keeper. Unfortunately for him, but fortunately for the team, Oliver Wood was a brilliant keeper, and while Ron would love to play in actual games more, he could also tell that learning from Wood himself was going to go a long way to making him a truly great player.

And he had been so excited to play this year. Wood had said, at the end of last year, that he could sub in for some games, especially if they were winning, and that thought had dominated his summer. And now it had all been thrown into confusion. As much as the twins were a punishment delivered from upon high, he still managed to care about them, and if Ron felt defensive of anything it was his family. But if he focused on revenge, um, justice, then he wouldn't be able to focus on his beloved Quidditch, and yet, he already knew that his decision was made. Ron Weasley wasn't the type of man to choose anything over his friends and family, and more than one slimy Slytherin had learned that, and if he had to teach the same to this Goblin spawn, he would, even if it meant a cold shoulder to his flighty mistress, Quidditch.

And so Ron Weasley stomped into the Gryffindor Common Room to meet with his friends and family, to convene a war council, so that they could get to the bottom of this Marfoir.

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Draco Malfoy had been bored. Bored, bored, bored. During his first year he had been excited, ecstatic, and bustling with fervor. There had been rumors that Harry Potter, born 11 years earlier would have to be in this class, and having such a celebrity in his class would have been beneficial, regardless of the boy's actual alignment. If he could have swayed the "Boy Who Lived" to support the purebloods it would have been wonderful. And it wasn't a far off thought either, the boy did come from a long and distinguished line, despite James Potter's lack of sense regarding his wife. And if he hadn't been inclined to array himself on their side of the board, that would have worked out as well. Many of those who might otherwise be for the incorporation of Muggle borns would probably find the celebrity treatment of the such a "golden boy" to be off putting, which he could use to galvanize them, becoming a "moderate" in their eyes. His poise and graceful standing allowing him to paint the unprepared Harry Potter as an extremist. He had it all thought out. It was going to be perfect, and now it was all for naught.

Harry Potter had never showed up, never arrived, never been on the train for him to extend his hand in friendship, none of it. And so Draco had had to whittle away his time in Hogwarts trying to make connections with the damn Ravenclaws, who could be manipulated, but who also, almost without fail, eventually really looked into the blood purist theory, and they usually found it lacking. Not that some couldn't be convinced that the threat of muggles being incorporated didn't have some of them still standing strong by his family and the others that represented all that was important but still. It was an infinitely less pleasing experience than getting to bash heads with the estranged, mysterious, and wildly popular Boy Who Lived. Which, more than likely, would have made himself all the more popular and mysterious and estranged as well, which, his father had said, did wonderful things for your chances with the ladies. Not that he needed any help in that department. But still, advantages were not to be ignored, no matter how far ahead someone was.

And now this, his father had heard rumors, specifically about Fudge trying desperately to exert enough pressure on Dumbledore to reveal something about Potter, but even father, with resources that only Draco could guess at, had been unable to find out. It had been unclear whether or not this was due to Fudge simply not knowing or it being a big enough secret that even Fudge had grown a backbone about it. Right now it certainly seemed like the latter was true. Harry Potter raised by Goblins? Fudge and Dumbledore would be lucky to keep their jobs, though it might depend on how long Dumbledore had known about this... the man was extremely crafty, somehow keeping his job over numerous decades despite his outspoken ways, criticisms, and secrets. If he had enough time to prepare, well, among his father's friends there was a saying, "A bee with a week, can make even vinegar sweet." Dumbledore had been underestimated before, and the results had been uniformly disastrous.

And now, despite this new information, Draco needed to go meet his contacts, to share his information with the Ravenclaws, who would, no doubt, appreciate it. He couldn't stop courting them, they had become in the last year one of the top powers. They had an amazing line up of witches, surprisingly enough, usually Ravenclaw, in terms of influence was dominated by the males of the group, given shy and silent support by their female counterparts. But this year and the last it was the witches who were doing all the heavy lifting. Cho Chang had somehow snared Cedric Diggory, who, for all intents and purposes, was the golden boy of the whole school and nigh untouchable. Say what you would about the Hufflepuffs, but once they latched onto someone they were about as likely to let go as a vampire on a virgin. There was little headway to be made on that front, although that didn't stop a negative campaign from being formed. Draco might not be able to get the Hufflepuffs to love Slytherin and their ideals, but he sure as hell could get them to dislike the Gryffindors.

More than Cho Chang though, was the surprising but formidable addition of Hermoine Granger to the ranks of the Ravenclaw elite. She had been nearly ostracized from her own house in the first year, but starting in the second year she had somehow started to explode onto the scene, a very nearly neutral power that epitomized the power of academia into a short, wild-haired form. Cho Chang was pretty easily dealt with, she was moderately ambitious, from a lineage that had shallow roots in England but, supposedly, went much farther back in Asia. Regardless, it made sense, in the context of pureblood ideology. But Hermoine Granger, she was first generation muggle-born. And she wasn't ambitious, she was powerful. It didn't really make any sense. As far as he could tell she had no goals, except to gather power, to gather knowledge, and to make it known. And she had been doing it for nearly two full years.

He had tried to set in motion ways to bring her down. To make her power seem less like the real thing and much more like false bravado (oh look at the muggle-born, trying to act like a pureblood), only for her to back it all up. And she had done it with a flair that reminded him, vaguely, of the Weasley Twins, which was concerning all by itself. Those two were their own type of powerhouses, luckily the kind with no agenda whatsoever, but they were also on the short list of people who you did not mess around with. Especially since they were now at a level of pranking that considered students to be too easy, and had, for a good year or near enough, concentrated their efforts on the teachers. And nothing spread good will like seeing Snape with a peg-leg and eye-patch, cursing the Twins with a venom more appropriate for a snake than a human.

And she, somehow, was channeling some of that. As far as he knew, those two entities had never collaborated, especially since Granger seemed morally affronted with the thought of pranking students, let alone teachers. But that didn't stop her from defending herself, and that was where she had shined. People who attacked her weren't attacked back, and at first he had thought it laughable for two reasons. One, there was no way she could keep it up, letting people take potshots at you all the time was going to end up with her hexed or cursed eventually. And two, that was weak. If someone attacked you and you didn't attack them back, it was a clear message of "keep attacking me". He had been wrong on both accounts. The first was the most surprising. Somehow, Granger had surpassed them all, at least in defense. She could create shields that he had only seen the premiere duelers in the 6th and 7th years make in the end of her 2nd year. And then she had started experimenting, and she had made her own shields, and they were nothing to laugh at either. She had somehow created a shield, at the end of her third year she had somehow tied a minor cheering charm to her shield that used the power of a spell sent at her to power it. So, throw a nasty, powerful hex at Granger, and get hit, almost instantly by a cheering charm with a tenth of the power. It had been a surreal sight to see two 4th year Slytherins rolling on the floor laughing uproariously after doing their best to humiliate Granger, and that was the kind of stuff that had imbued such fear and respect into the Weasleys.

It had become a real pain, mostly due to the fact that the only thing Granger seemed to do besides develop and practice horrifyingly effective shields was help people with homework, regardless of their affiliation. Even Slytherins who were firmly in the camp of pureblooded righteousness would go to her saying, "If there is anything a Mudblood is good for, it is helping their betters." But such words didn't change the fact that some of them had slowly become protective of her, and that there was some actual respect hidden under their platitudes.

And he wouldn't be getting any help from the older Slytherins, they were all focusing their attention on Cedric Diggory, who had kinda appeared from nowhere. And he was showing most of them up. So, that was a wash, not that he had been very eager to go prostrate himself before them and beg for help, but he at least liked having the option of appealing to their shared beliefs.

Draco, himself, didn't really see the whole pureblood theory as irrefutable. But once entrenched in power, one did not give it up without a fight. The schism of wizarding power in the early 1700's due to the colonization of the Americas had created a wonderful power vacuum, and that wasn't something that the Malfoys would be giving up anytime soon, at least, not without a fight. And even if they did lose, they would not allow themselves to stay that way. His father was already an old pro at that, at least. Just look at where they were now, when only 10 years ago they had been the top lieutenants of Voldermort.

But all of this could wait, right now Draco needed to go find some Ravenclaws, rile up some Gryffindors, promise subtly support to the Hufflepuffs if this Goblin Terror attacked, and write a very detailed letter to his father.

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Neville Longbottom was nervous. It was the day after the announcements, and Neville could barely think straight, and, unlike everyone else, it was not due to the announcement of the Goblin Reaper, as some people were calling the scary man who had bent the stones of Hogwarts to his will under the twinkling eyes of their Headmaster. No, Neville had, somehow, stayed attentive to the remaining announcements, maybe too shocked to fully understand that there was a Goblin soldier sent to kill them all standing in the Great Hearth, as someone people had said. And it had been during those sequential announcements that Neville had heard the news about the newest Defense Professor. She was a vampire.

Now Neville had made some progress with dealing with his own brand of cowardice, but the announcement that the Defense Against the Dark Arts position would be taken over by an honest to goodness Vampire, was a bit more than his heart could really handle right now. And amazingly enough, he couldn't really get anyone else to worry about it with him. They were all too busy with the imminent destruction of Hogwarts at the hands of the GoblinTron, Executioner of Gringotts, as some people said. The main problem with this development was that there was too much information on Vampires. In one book he had read they can turn into all manner of things, in another that they had fangs, in another that they had no fangs but carried small knives, and a less reputable source said they shimmered and shined.

Neville had pretty much decided early on that if he couldn't get over being afraid of things. Then maybe he could, at least, be prepared for them. In his 3rd year, he had been helped, at length, by Hermoine Granger, a master of academia who had, after a particularly hectic and nerve wracking night of studying, confessed that she had been terrified and lonely in her first year, and that she had, after some friendly advice, used the power of knowledge to protect herself. It had always surprised Neville the type of things one hears when being very quiet, and no one ever seemed to take the Hufflepuffs, at least when they were alone, very seriously. So, quite frequently, he ended up hearing things of a nature that would probably not have been said around a member of a different House.

Once Neville had started thinking that maybe he could be prepared for his fears, if not facing them directly, he started getting a bit creative with his Herbology skills. And thankfully, his dorm mates in Hufflepuff were more than willing to let him take over part of their room for a little mini greenhouse which he was using to devastating effect. It wasn't particularly difficult to raise a multitude of plants with effects similar to the Calming Draught or a minor Pepper Up potion, and with such tools at his disposable Neville was slowly regaining some control over his life. And he was more than willing to share with his housemates, who had been a godsend. He had been so nervous 3 years ago, but they had all been there for him, even the older kids, and this had all been before he had started to use his Herbology skills for his and their benefit.

And so it was with the support of his housemates in his heart and anxiety over a vampire in his brain that Neville confined himself to the library, hoping desperately that there was some kind of plant he could make use of as a shield against his fear. And then maybe he could figure out some kind of repellent for the Dark Emperor of Goblins who would be stealing their souls on Halloween, as some people said.

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Luna Lovegood sat outside in the soft September heat, shoes off, and her feet squished into the grass that was lush on the ground. She had been here out for a long time, enjoying the eerie quiet of the outside as everyone inside went loudly sane with their anxiety ridden rumors that rampaged through rooms and hallways. She much preferred her quiet insanity of the dirt and grass. It was quite the beautiful night out, though every night was beautiful, she supposed if you were sitting in the right place. And as a stiff breeze blew its way through the trees and grass, swirling leaves and her skirt, she bent with it, just like the living things around her, angled in the green and quiet but for the roaring of a planet hurtling through space as it was all still in its rotation.

Luna Lovegood sat outside and did nothing as the day ended.

**A/N:**

**Yeah, Vampire Defense Professor. I know I don't have a track record really, but I do have some good reasons for this, and hopefully it won't suck shit. **

**Um, this chapter pretty much just sets up everything for motivations and goals and shit. I'm hoping that nothing crazy new will be popping up from this, and it should cover all the crazy new shit i've introduced. Of course, it still might not be clear what Harry aka Marfoir (is Marfoir the stupidest fucking name? I cant tell, but I am super worried about it. Please let me know?) is doing, but I know what he is doing, so try not to have a heart attack. Voldermort will also be in this. **

**Draco isn't a fucking idiot in this. **

**Also, Snape. Snape will be kinda important, and I had a cool epitome about him, and I'll be explaining it in story, so you'll have to wait to see how brilliant I am. **

**Whatcha think about Marfoir's magic? I hope it is coming off as interesting at least. It has its own advantages and disadvantages, but the kid is powerful, which will mean his enemies will be powerful. An important thing to keep in mind. Marfoir won't be walking all over people. **

**Also, I wanted to mention that this isn't stuff I had all written before, this is all stuff that I just wrote on the spot and then updated immediately. So, if current trends stay, then this story will, hopefully, be updated every 2-3 days. Let's hope that keeps up. **

**okay, hope you all don't die and shit.**  
**huggles and snuggles and whatever the fuck,**  
**ian**


	5. Chapter 5

The quiet dripping of natural water spread throughout the space, echoing through the darkness in a way that he found puzzling. He was in near perfect darkness, his eyes constantly guessing at the shapes that were before him with no discernable accuracy. He had long ago learned to ignore such input from his eyes, which did not deal well with seeing nothing. Plus, he already had a rough idea of what lay before him. There would be rock and stone and dirt, all tightly packed into a tunnel that was colossal in its size, and yet so perfectly encapsulated the feeling of immense pressure bearing down on your head. The dirt and rocks themselves would be slick with the water that he could hear dripping. And yet for all the wetness that spread throughout the cavern everything was sharp and jagged. He had slipped many times in his trek through this gaping maw of the earth, and his mistakes had been harshly punished by blades of rock; the slickness of them mixing painfully with the blood that ran down his legs and elbows.

Taking out his first knife that had been gifted upon him, he tapped it against the walls, creating a singing note that reverberated throughout the tunnel. He had learned this bit of magic recently, and so he was only able to vaguely make out the details of the tunnel and rock around him. There was no clear path to get out, and he was having a hard time trekking back through all of this now that he was overburdened with the whole point of the expedition. The tunnel stretched out in front of him, the unclear shapes of stalactites and stalagmites creating an eerie picture.

He had managed to get, what he hoped, was an interesting enough artifact. Some kind of vase or container that had a series of paintings on it, showing Goblins and another species he didn't recognize interacting. He was no expert in these matters, but he had picked up enough from his Artisan, who was one of the most learned Goblins in the matters of past pieces of pottery and, really, all Goblin history, that he had been able to locate an area that would probably yield some sort of item he could bring back. And he had been right! It was his real first test, the first duel that every young Goblin, upon turning age 7, goes through.

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Marfoir's first class upon arriving to Hogwarts was charms, and he had little to no idea what the class could entail. The term was so vague, it seemed like it could mean anything. From runes, wand work, to simply learning how to speak in an effective way. He really had no idea, but this was not something that was clear from his visage. He strolled through the halls with his tightly controlled smile, that gave off the impression of something with slightly too many teeth, his skin stretched a little too tightly. It seemed to warn off most of the students who had thought to maybe indulge their curiosities this morning by trying to approach him. So far, none had been successful.

He was a bit excited at the prospect of classes. Knowledge was the ultimate possession, seeing as how it was almost impossible to steal from a person. And it gave so much, hoard enough knowledge and other things could so easily fall in place. So, it was with some trepidation but optimism that Marfoir made his way into Mr. Flitwicks' Charm Class with the Ravenclaws and Slytherin.

The classroom that Marfoir walked into was as expected. There were desks, a podium, and a large amount of students already haggling their way into whatever they perceived as being the best seats. Several people were already sitting down, including a young man who seemed to have two bodyguards, his white-silver hair perfectly groomed, and sitting as if he had been waiting forever, perfectly content, as the two large bodyguards behind him, stood, the seats to either side of the well groomed young man clearly for them.

Another student, a female, caught his attention, sitting in the middle of the classroom, who was, for some reason, constantly producing a shield that very slightly shimmered around her, enveloping her and whoever she was near in a protective layer that sang. He suspected it was defensive, but he could not tell, it didn't seem to be anchored to a talisman or a location.

He also noticed that Professor Flitwick seemed to be nowhere near, so, in an attempt to derail anyone who might want to ask him any inane questions, Marfoir promptly produced the same knife he had cut the Weasley Twins with, and that he had also used to slice open his own chest. Everyone around him abruptly quieted, but he paid no attention, instead focusing on the knife he held, the warmth from its handle being pulled down into the stones around him. His smiled tightened a bit more, widening, and he dropped the knife, the point hitting the stones without a clang, but with a soft, delicate ping, as the stone it had hit rippled slightly like mercury before the same seat and table that he had dined at the previous night pushed itself from the floor, a smooth flow of stone and wood that coalesced, seemingly at his whim. He bent at the hip, bringing his lips close to the stone of the table and whispered his thanks, as well as his disbelief that Hogwarts had decided to once again gift him such a wonderful piece of architecture for his studies.

His thanks given, Marfoir sat, just off to the right of where the other, regular desks were, his seat at an angle, his back to no one, and his eyes on the door and the windows. Interestingly enough, the woman with the shield paid him no heed whatsoever, but the eyes of the manicured young man were fixed upon his desk and clothes quite stringently. He had expected the opposite, to be sure, most aristocracy would not acknowledge you unless they knew your ancestry, and then only if they approved it, and wizards were, by far, arrogant enough to think them all nobles. His attention, however, was diverted as the Professor finally made his appearance, getting the rest of the class to also sit, and the eyes of the young man to finally fix upon something else.

Professor Flitwick was a small humanoid, but he knew instantly that the man, or whatever he was, was not a Goblin. He had heard a few rumors, passing his way to his private room and breakfast about how Flitwick and himself must be old friends or some such nonsense. He had had no prior knowledge about a fellow Goblin, and he had doubted such a thing, or else his Artisan would have surely told him about it. And he had been right, Flitwick might have seemed like a Goblin, but only because the wizards and witches stupidly thought that those who worked at the bank were an accurate representation of their race. As if the greater majority and best of the Goblins worked at a bank, to be servants and caterers to wizards and their folly. He wasnt entirely sure what Flitwick was but he might be some sort of Halfling. There were an exceptionally large amount of magical animals, not even including the magical diseases that propagated across the world of Magic. Luckily they tended to be an annoying collection of diseases rather than a fatal collection. It was difficult for a magical virus to survive and spread if it was fatal, because such diseases routinely instantly snuffed out all life in a certain radius and then died themselves with no left to feed upon.

He had however heard that the Professor was an acclaimed dueler, having won the European International Tournament, and so it was reflected in the grace of Flitwick's step, as well as the wandless magic he conjured to amplify his voice and grant him access to his podium, and so, the class started.

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WIthin the first five minutes Marfoir was nearly blind with rage. They were abominations! It was unthinkable what these wizards were doing, and he was nearly boiling with rage as he watched a chair fly around the room. That chair was wood and metal, grounded, given sustenance and place by its four legs, given purpose by its stability, and given form by metal. It was not a thing meant to be flying, and yet it did, it flew for the amusement and practice of those who were so ignorant of the world. Around him several children laughed, these wizards who cared for nothing but their own fancies.

In front of him lay his own bauble to mock and corrupt with his wizarding skills, Flitwick had just appeared in front of him, hoping to see what it was that he could do. He seemed to be not at all bothered by the horrible travesties that were occurring around him. Flitwick said something, probably something encouraging or the like, and when Marfoir looked up from his desk, to the slight frame of the Professor, he seemed to flinch at the look he was giving the man and everything around him, but he was here to learn, and so he would complete his task.

The item in front of Marfoir was a key, a quick inspection revealed it to be mostly copper, and it was well made too, although clearly from a factory rather than hand made. Factories, another abomination in the wizarding world, but that was for another time. Marfoir hefted the key, getting a feel for it, while Flitwick looked at him, puzzled. Marfoir gave the key a few quick turns, then he mimed actually opening something with it, starting as if opening a door, then moving it lower or higher, as if opening something larger or smaller. He stopped for a second, then brought the key lower and smiled a bit. Flitwick flinched again a bit as Marfoir brought a knife, this one different from the one his classmates had seen him produce before and with a sure swipe, cut his finger, letting a droplet of blood hit the key. He let it sit a while, then used his knife to sweep the drop of blood back on the blade, and then sucked on the blade itself, consuming the small amount of blood. It was a fully copper key. That made things easier, and it did indeed open a small lock, it seemed one that opened a notebook. It hadn't been able to do so yet, being forced into this unnatural state of being used as practice for wizards, but that was what it had been made to do. The taste of his blood mixed with the key's properties was... eager and a little bit confused. It thrummed with what it knew to be its job, but it had not yet been able to fulfill its purpose, and while it had no concept of time, it was eager for its time to come.

It was there to protect, but more importantly it was there to open. And so, Marfoir nimbly switched out knives, slashed a small cut into his thumb once again, and let his blood drip upon the key, speaking slowly and clearly to it.

A small, slow pulse of magic emanated from the key, and quite suddenly it produced a stable, magical shield one foot by one foot in front of Marfoir's face. Flitwick, who had been entranced by his movements and the knife, actually leapt a little at the display. He hadn't felt much in the way of magical power coming from his student, and yet here was a key, an inanimate object, producing a stable, magical barrier. That was a very powerful charm or, at the very least, a fairly complicated runic array, but he had neither seen nor felt any runes or large magical power called into play. It seemed like the Marfoir had simply ignited the key with his own magic, allowing it to call the shield into place, but that seemed more than a little ridiculous. The key itself was just copper, completely normal and mass produced. But before Flitwick could settle back to examine it closer, Hermoine suddenly appeared beside him, staring intently at the key.

Hermione had been busy helping a fellow Ravenclaw stop trying to use a complicated runic array to charm their box into singing, mostly due to the fact that there were far easier ways to get a box to sing than using three conjoined runic tapestries to imbue an item with purpose, sound, and constraints, let alone getting it to produce many sounds, at different intervals, that didn't destroy anyone's eardrums, but she settled for simply erasing his hard work when she finally felt a small bit of magic coming from the far right of the room, where the enigmatic Harry Potter, Goblin, sat alone. And she started running over when his key, a simple copper item, began to produce a stable, albeit small, magical barrier. It seemed similar to the Protego spell, at first glance, but that didn't mean Knuts to Galleons compared to the fact that he had, with a minimal amount of power, as far as she could tell, charmed a non-magical artifact into producing a relatively high level spell.

She was in front of the barrier, wand out, and poking it before she even had completed her thoughts, automatically running through several diagnostic spells to clarify what had just happened. That level of magical conservation had been the key to her own Cheering Shield, for which she had become infamous and famous for. She hadn't been aware of the young man who portrayed himself as a Goblin baring his teeth, nor his stare, but she did notice when he suddenly drove a knife (not one she recognized) into the desk, right by the key whose shield she had been poking.

"I am not entirely sure what you are doing right now, wizard, but it would be appreciated if you could stop immediately." Hermione blinked, those were surprisingly polite words considering the knife in the middle of the table and the impassive stare that he was giving her (that she had just noticed). However, Hermione hadn't become the Cheering Queen (one of the few epitaphs she had been given that she liked) by allowing others to dictate the terms. So, Hermoine did what she may very well do best, she asked a question.

"This shield is by far more powerful than the amount of magic I felt you imbue the object with, how did you bypass the laws of conversation to create an object that produces more power than it was originally given?"

Marfoir stared at the wizard. It was actually a fairly intelligent question, he had half been expecting her to either freeze up, leave, or ask him if he ate babies. But instead she seemed a bit more fascinated with the magic and hadn't, amazingly, chalked it all up to the "wonder and prowess" of a wizard's might. That didn't mean he was going to answer her though. He wasn't feeling too charitable right now, especially since the gentleman with the two bouncers seemed to be staring a hole right through his head right now.

Marfoir leaned a bit closer as if he was going to answer the lady's question, while at the same time his right hand caressed the stone leg of the table he was still sitting at, peeling the stone from it as if it was made of mercury rather than stone. The lady wizard also leaned in, and at the same time that he plucked the knife that he had stabbed into the desk and used it to cut through the shield that the key had produced, a slight purring sound the only indication that there was any resistance. At the same time he also threw the melted stone, which had reformed into a knife at the desk of the young gentleman, getting him to recoil back slightly and remove his stare from the back of Marfoir's head.

"I don't appreciate so much attention directed to myself. Please, I am quite fond of my privacy. As to the shield, as you can see it is no longer there, so answering any questions about it would be a moot point, correct?"

Hermione was about to argue that her question was actually about the magic he had used on the key to create the shield in the first place when Flitwick had, quite suddenly, placed himself in between them, pushing her with a surprising amount of force back to her desk.

"Ahhh, privacy, such a wonderful perk here at Hogwarts, you know, not all of the Wizarding Schools give each student their own privacy screens in their rooms? Such a tragedy that some most go without it, wouldn't you agree, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy?"

Malfoy smirked at the sight of Hermione getting herded, and inclined his head ever so slightly as Flitwick's not so subtle hint. He had been surprised by the stone knife that had suddenly appeared on his desk, buried nearly up to the hilt, but it was a reaction he was in favor of. He certainly did not want Hermione getting her claws into the Goblin Boy Who Lived, and although his own attention to the Goblin had not been ignored, he was at least confident that he was someone that Harry Potter would recognize, and that, really, had been his only goal for the class. Malfoy had also noticed that once everyone started throwing up the charms from previous years on their items, that Potter had seemed to get unreasonably mad, if the clenched fists and thousand yard stare were anything to go by. He had no feasible idea why anyone would get mad about that, but it definitely bore more thought, knowing your enemies' buttons was great, but knowing your friends' buttons was paramount, and he still didn't know which Potter might be.

Even know, with all the excitement over he could see Potter's eyes roaming over the various levitating, singing, and dancing objects with something like fury in his eyes. He seemed quite distracted by the myriad of objects, so Malfoy went back to trying to locate the numerous knives the boy seemed to have secreted about his person. There seemed to be one on his right thigh, near the line of silver that was embroidered upon his pants, but Malfoy still hadn't seen him draw that one. The other two knives he had seen hadn't come from there, although he had been unable to locate exactly where they did come from. He thought that Potter might have some slipped up his sleeves, but that would only work if they were magicked there, and he hadn't sensed any magic coming off him. And that was something he was good at, in the art of politic being able to sense magic was extremely important. Glamours, misdirection, and charms were all used quite commonly behind locked doors, and while it was "impolite" to bring it up, being unaware of it was just foolish. It was also one of the ways that he kept track of people, by having a good feel for their magical signatures.

Hermione was sitting at her desk because Professor Flitwick had insisted upon it. She wanted very much to poke and prod that key more, almost as much as she wanted to poke and prod Harry Potter, who now, apparently, referred to himself as Marfoir. She supposed it was supposed to be menacing when he pulled the knife, but she was pretty confident in her shield, and then he totally ruined it by slicing through the key's shield like it was nothing. She had gleaned enough knowledge of the shield to know it was pretty powerful, and unless that knife had been enchanted on a level that would have had it giving off waves of magical power then it shouldn't have been able to do that, not that easily at least. So, it either meant that his knife was also operating under different principles (a possibility due to him seemingly ignoring the laws of conversation) or the shield itself was acting out of accordance with what she thought it should. It seemed like that was the more likely answer, but she couldn't be sure, not without spending some more time with it. So it was with a longing gaze that she stared at the pocket that Marfoir had swiftly put the key in when Flitwick looked like he might also be a little too curious about its properties.

She wasn't even taking notes, which gave her a vague feeling of guilt, until she paid attention to know that they were starting to go over the basics of weaving charms with other pieces of magic, something she, of all people, had a firm grasp on. She spent most of the rest of the class either trying to puzzle out what exactly Marfoir had done, how she might get another look at the key, or helping some of the Slytherins and Ravenclaws near her grasp fully the intricacies of melding multiple types of spells. It was a fairly boring class, although she did notice that several of the charmed pieces that had been scuttling around had disappeared, and their owners didn't seem to know where they had gone. Not that was a big deal, they'd already been graded, but Hermoine had her suspicions that Marfoir was involved, though she never saw him take anything.

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Eventually the class ended and while Marfoir certainly wasn't pleased with the class nor its teachings, he had been able to get a hold of his temper, mostly by quietly stealing several items in the class that had been charmed. He would either cleanse or help them later, but for right now, he needed to get to his next class, one that he was fairly excited for: Potions. It was the closest Hogwarts probably came to any kind of smithing, and he, at least, would be able to use an open flame. It had been nearly five days since he had last been able to manipulate fire for creation, and while his work on the train and with Hogwarts had been satisfying, it just wasn't the same. Actual fire had such a quality to it, and he suspected that in something as delicate as potion brewing that their standard of flame might be very high. It was rare for a Goblin to work with the more delicate flames. It was considered to be weak, as if a flame that couldn't melt tungsten was not a flame at all. BUt he had always done particularly well with the more delicate work, and he was excited to maybe get a chance to improve upon that.

So once the class ended, Marfoir was out of his seat and to the door almost instantly. He wanted to have some extra time to prowl the halls of Hogwarts, which were magnificent. They ebbed and flowed with an ancient magic that thrummed across it like a fine sheen of condensation on a glass. He wasn't yet used to it, but hes suspected he would be soon, as the other students never seem to just stop in awe of it all. He had only made it a couple of feet though before a spell shot out at him, he darted quickly to the side, but when the spell hit the wall beside him it only created a dazzling lighting effect, he moved again as another spell was unleashed, again hitting the wall, and again it created a superfluous show of light, and then a third time, another spell, though this one hit about head level and with the light created a loud boom, getting everyone's attention who hadn't already been memorized by the light. The sound of it shocked him a bit, and in that instant of stillness, he was hit with maybe three or four spells, all of which changed his appearance to some red glowing figure, decked out in some medieval garb, and holding a giant axe, that weighed nothing, but had flowing gold script saying, "THE GOBLIN DECAPITATOR".

He was far too shocked to do anything for a moment. He had been expecting his limbs to be torn, his blood on the ground, or at least his possessions stolen, but instead, as he dealt with this unbelievable turn of events, two red headed hellions seemingly appeared from nowhere, wrapped their arms around him, took a picture, and then boldly announced to the students around him, which included a dismayed young gentleman, whose name he had learned, in class, was Malfoy, and the young woman who had prodded his key, Hermione Granger, who was, at this point trying not to giggle, that pictures with the fearsome Goblin Terror would only be One Sickle a piece. Meanwhile people were trying to decide whether or not they would line up to actually take advantage of the Weasley Twins' newest prank, but those that caught a look at Marfoir's eyes seemed to back away slowly. Unbeknownst to the Twins, they were too busy trying to get people to actually pay a Sickle, there was steam coming up from the garments that they had magicked upon Marfoir's frame. While it all looked imposing it actually wasn't, instead it was just some cloth with a glamour on it, which was why Marfoir wasn't on his knees, buckling under the weight. And now that same cloth was starting to steam and warp under something that was bubbling up from The Boy Who Lived's skin. George and Fred noticed almost at the same time, their hands suddenly growing hot as the glamours attached to the cloth sloughed away revealing the raggedy cloth that they had been attached to.

Looking down, the Twins realized that Marfoir wasn't staring at his audience, them, or even the walls, but looking down at two pinpricks of blood that were forming on his thumbs as well as a soft glow from his forearms, as the cloth burst into a flame, revealing his impeccable suit beneath it. The heat coming off the flame didn't seem to be enough to set afire the cloth, but it certainly had, and it was certainly preventing the Twins from once again wrapping their arms around the Goblin, probably by design.

Marfoir, having gotten the Twins to stop touching him as well as thoroughly scaring most of his classmates, robotically stepped away from the redheads, turned to them so as to look at them both, and said, "Is there anything else you would require of me, Twins?"

Fred, ever quick on the upswing, launched a Sickle at the Goblin and smirked, "How about a picture?" George guffawed, and it drew some nervous chuckles from the rest of the class. Marfoir though, snatched it out of the air and looked at it closely.

Hermione was going to step in and at least go through the motions of berating the Twins when the Goblin suddenly began shaping the piece of metal in his hands, as if it were butter. This time there was no glow on his forearms, which Hermoine found curious, but her attention was soon diverted back to the metal, which was slowly taking on a long thin shape, with several hundred indetations that vibrated and wobbled, slowly taking form. It wasn't until he had thrown it back at Twins that Hermione realized it was the picture they requested, with the Goblin taller than both of the Twins and their expressions shocked while his was smug. Fred caught it easily enough, and both of them simply nodded their heads in thanks before taking off. And with that everyone started to disperse, with Marfoir taking the lead in going to his next class.

On his way to his next class, Potions, Marfoir wasn't thinking about the delicate structure of how brews were made but instead of how masterfully the Twins had herded him into the perfect place for their prank. He would have thought that his actions regarding them in the train would have scared them off, but instead they had responded in the opposite manner he expected. He wasn't particularly pleased about their actions, and he had, without really thinking, gone along with it. He hoped this didn't make himself seem more approachable. He had a mission here, and while some interaction would be necessary, he would prefer if he got to pick the details of such engagements. But, alas, it was quite simply in a Goblin's blood to respond like to like, and he would rather be possession-less then let a prank like that go unanswered. And he considered it quite masterful how he had used their own gift, as if it were a gift, to create their wish, and to give it back to them. He wondered if they would understand the nuance of that; Goblin pranks mostly had to do with possession, and so, hopefully, the Twins would understand just how badly he "burned them" to use a human term. Unlikely though, there was barely any accurate information out there about Goblins, let alone information about their cultural take on pranks. Ah well, it would just have to be his own knowledge of it that warmed his heart.

Author Notes:

Fuck

the what it is has been a long time. I am so sorry my little baby birds; I have not been able to summon the gorge and disgust needed to vomit upon the page for your benefit, and this mostly has to do with the fact that I had no goddamn, writeful clue how to do this chapter. These damn details of personal interaction and growth are so difficult when all I want to do is get to the end, which, I do assure you should make us all hurl in ecstasy.

Here's an actual question, for those who like to interact with the lamentable titans that stroll through these pages of the web: How are these chapter lengths? I do admit, I could have very easily not posted this yet, and merged the next chapter and this one into some sort of unholy, yet seamless union. Would you have preferred that? Will you probably not be able to answer that until next time. Most probably indeed but maybe take a moment now, in the eternal abyss of our lives of the internet and think awhile will you? Gracias, putas.

Hearts without Context 3,  
ian


	6. Chapter 6

Crawling his way through the dark cave, Harry clutched the artifact to his chest, the cold of it seeping through his clothes and making his heart almost feel numb. It was dark and cold, and he was tired and a little scared, but he was also elated over his success. He had no idea what his opponent had managed to do. He knew it would probably be a knife; that was the most traditional item for the progeny of an Artisan of the Flame to create, but you never knew with this generation. The older Goblins loved to mourn the ways of the old in front of Harry, always talking about how in their life they would have never accepted a child such as him, and then they would all wag their fingers and eyebrows, give him a treat, and send him off in a huff of fake indignity.

He wouldn't realize until a bit later that the treats they were giving him were a whole nother prank that his Artisan had heartily laughed over for years.

More importantly, he was almost back to where his Artisan and the others waited for him. Although it didn't matter, he hoped that he had arrived before his opponent had managed to finish whatever he was sculpting. Not only would he appreciate being able to rest for a while, before the next part of the ceremony, but, like any child, he wanted to be first. And while it was difficult to say whether or not his item was better, nor was it the point, being first was a very easy way to measure his success, so it was with that thought in his mind that he pushed himself farther, running carefully across the slippery floor, using his brand new knife to echolocate his way through the nearly perfect darkness of the hole that he had crawled down to, hopefully, win.

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The dark shelter of the Potions classroom was surprisingly comforting for Marfoir. The room was fairly dark, as light could have some explosive reactions with the more delicate ingredients of potion making, and it was also surprisingly spacious in comparison to the other rooms, with plenty of space between each large desk. At the front of the classroom Professor Snape was already sitting at his desk. He seemed to be engrossed with a heavy tome, but Marfoir could not tell if it was related to potions at all. He was also certain that the Professor very much knew he was there, and knew exactly what he was up to. So it was good that he was doing nothing more than looking around.

The ground was thick stone, scrubbed clean by magical or other means, he didn't know, but it was pristine for a place that looked like it should be covered in layers of dust. There were numerous cauldrons stacked across the backside of the room, with an impressive series of shelves containing all manner of ingredients. The cauldrons were of particular interest to Marfoir, as some of them seemed to be gold, platinum, and there was even a series of steel ones. So he took to perusing them as Snape read his book and probably kept an eye on him.

The careful attention to the cauldrons as well as his walk through the corridors had given him time to cool off a bit. His first instinct had been to retaliate upon the Twins, for any spell slung his way was not to be taken lightly, luckily his blood had been cool enough for him to realize the huge amount of witnesses, and that the spell, once dodged, had turned out to be nothing more than a light show. While there certainly seemed to be a great amount of tension due to his presence, it was comforting to know that no one so far seemed to have it out for him.

He wasn't entirely sure what to do about the Twins, and he hoped that his own response had been impressive enough that there wouldn't be a repeat, if someone had actually directed even a minorly harmful spell at him, he would need to retaliate. It was important that he seem dangerous, and he wouldn't at all mind taking some wizards down a peg or two. As far as he was concerned it was win-win, and he sincerely doubted that Dumbledore would let Harry Potter be expelled over a case of self-defense, but only if he was able to present the defense of reaction to a harmful spell. And as to how harmful, well, he could barely expect to know just what was lethal or not.

He let a savage grin find its place on his face, its distorted vision reflected in the gleaming cauldron he had stopped in front. Quite suddenly a quiet, deep voice from behind him announced, "Mr. Potter, how good of you to arrive early, however, I would prefer all students to simply take their seats, rather than muck around the confines of my classroom."

Marfoir had no idea how the man had snuck up on him. He was no stranger to the sneaky variety, and yet he had not sensed the man at all. Maybe the rumors of him being a prolific dueler and master of the dark arts were not so ridiculous.

Taken aback, Marfoir quickly ran through what he knew of the Potions Master: 35 years old, Master Potion Maker, Supposedly on the side of Good aka Dumbledore, Rumors of Death Eater connections, Graduated from Slytherin, Had multiple publications in Critical Cauldrons as well as other journals, Muggleborn, and teaching at one of the premiere institutions in Europe. None of this information prepared Marfoir for the ruffled and rumpled visage of Severus Snape, who smelled slightly of harsh chemicals and oil and moved like he had no uncertain qualms about killing a man.

"Sorry Professor, I just wanted to take a look at the cauldrons, I noticed several of them are made of different materials. I would have thought that it would be the flame that would change more, rather than what the flame heated."

Professor Snape's eyes narrowed at the statement, and Marfoir briefly wondered if maybe he should have just sat down. He had only felt like this before his Artisan or some of the Masters. People who were incredibly adept at their profession, and who had the power and ability to make it known to others, the type of people who weren't the best simply because of their skill but their ability to manipulate those around them into believing such a thing, unquestionably.

"Flame manipulation in brewing is not something we introduce until the 7th year here at Hogwarts. Now, if you would take your seat."

"Pardon me, sir, but one of these chairs is not actually mine, is it?"

Professor Snape's eyes once again swept across the room and settled on Marfoir, "No, Mr. Potter, it is simply an expression."

And so, Marfoir took a seat, and soon after that, class started.

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Neville was a bit nervous for his first Potions class of the year. He hadn't been particularly proficient at Potions since ever, but he had recently started making progress, due to, in a large part, his progress with Herbology, which was a dream come true, and the kindness of Hermione, queen of Ravenclaw.

Approaching the beginning of school he had been so excited. He had been doing quite well in all of his classes at the end of last year, and he had, over the summer, finally perfected the Gwerty Grunder Growth, a particularly potent plant that could when properly prepared boost one's courage while acting as a sharpener, it was kind of like adrenaline without the heart palpitations, and it was notoriously difficult to get to grow, let alone prepare, but he had worked on it all summer, ignoring everything else, and with a little bit of luck, he had finally succeeded. So now, he would finally be able to get through Potions without any trouble. But that had been before the arrival of both the Goblin Decimator and the Vampress. Now he was fervently wishing he had taken some more time to look up other useful plants over his summer break. But it was nothing he could do about it now, and so he had simply swallowed the bitter and lemony concoction he had made from the GGG and stepped into the feared Potions Classroom.

He had arrived early in hoping that Professor Snape might not yet be there, but he was sorely disappointed to see the man already there and already having words with a student, and they didn't sound like particularly kind words, although he didn't think he'd ever heard Professor Snape be kind, but still, it didn't bode well. And then he caught sight of the student in question. It was the bloody Goblin, like his luck couldn't get any worse. He had already heard about the events between the halls, where the fearsome creature before him had melted through an entire set of armor with unearthly flames before twisting the whole metal construct into a portrait of him slaying the Weasley Twins, who had, according to rumors, somehow interrupted a dark, blood ritual he had been performing on the train.

And so, Neville Longbottom stood there, mouth gaping quite a bit, at the sight of two of the scariest people he knew before immediately whirling around in a 360 spin, trying to make sure that the Vampress wasn't also in the room, ready to kill him and share his bones with the other two. He would not be trapped in such an obvious manner. But instead of a grisly end that his mind had no trouble conjuring up, Professor Snape simply waved him to a seat, and the Boy Who Lived, Goblin Executor, simply sat and stared, looking at nothing.

Luckily the plant was kicking in, so Neville was able to find his seat without totally losing his shit. And he was able to do so just as the rest of Hufflepuff and Gryffindor came barreling through the door. As the other students hustled and bustled, Neville came to a razor's edge, the world around him becoming simple in a way that Occam would have never imagined. It took little effort for him to calmly weather the brunt of Professor Snape's shouting as the students finally began to settle down.

Class passed quickly for Neville, as he wrote furiously, trying to get as much information down as possible for the second part of class, the actual brewing. The potion would probably help with the near constant shakiness of his hands, due more to Snape's presence than any kind of ailment, Merlin knows he could snip and cut a plant, no problem, but for whatever reason he had a ton of trouble dealing with the easiest of potion ingredients. He would have never been able to copy it all if it wasn't for the Potion. He had always had steady hands, but he was also clumsy, being able to move quickly had always been particularly difficult for him, that is if he wanted to do so accurately, luckily the potion was excellent for quick movements. Just like adrenaline was.

They weren't working in pairs today, and Neville wasn't sure but he thought it might have something to do with the Goblin Boy Who Executed. Usually Snape loathed individual work, simply because it required him to grade more students who failed to meet his expectations. Although, this was a position that apparently changed once admitted into Snape's Newts, where he seemed to take a delirious pleasure in making absolutely sure you deserved to be in that class. But he wasn't too worried about that, although the flame near him was making him nervous, usually he would just cut up stuff and then his partner would be the one who applied it to the potion, that was always a part he tended to have more trouble with, but that made some amount of sense to him, plants weren't big fans of fire either, and man was fire hot, that shit could kill you straight up, and so it seemed perfectly normal to Neville to stay away, and plus this was some particularly hot fire, it took a lot of it and well concentrated too for it to boil the potions in their huge cauldrons, and these weren't cauldrons made of light stuff either, they were iron or copper or platinum and some were apparently gold or even diamond but he had never seen one of those, they were only for the most complicated and expensive of potions and while he had worked with some pretty rare materials regarding plants, well you could always just make more of that if you had the right conditions, like with the GGG, all you really had to do was create an environment of magical saturation that mimicked the heart, because essentially what you were doing was diverting magical concentrations to your heart much like diverting blood but you know, it was a bit more dangerous and maybe, hmmm, ten times as effective? He wasn't really sure about the numbers just now, but numbers could lie, couldn't they? Plants were so much better, they lived in dirt, and dirt was fucking cool. How did they do it? All those nutrients and stuff, and while Neville totally did know how that worked it did sometimes just hit him, and it was still amazing.

Neville looked down at his hands, they had been busy, and they had completely minced the black newt tongue for his potion, and he was glad that he hadn't nipped his fingers with a juicy slice cause he had heard that human blood drew the Goblins like blood drew Vampires, and man he was not ready for that class at all. Why did he have to think of a Vampire metaphor, the scariest of all metaphors, maybe? He honestly couldn't decide, and if Goblins were drawn to human blood just like Vampires were, were they vampires?

Okay, new line of thought. What is going on with this potion, and is it going to blow up and kill everyone? No, ok, things look good. Ugh, I'm hot, is it hot in here, is my heart okay, there shouldn't be any heat complications, is that fire still burning the way it should be, okay it totally is, and the magic should be drawing heat away from my heart that's how it, in part works, which reminds me I need to snack, ok, there we go, all chopped up and thinly sliced, now add it carefully, look at that cauldron, oh ok, there we go, its nicely in, and not even a bit of boiling sludge to fly into my eye, and-holy shit, that cauldron is melting, what the holy merlin is going on, oh god, don't make eye contact its the Goblin Who Melts Shit All the Time. And wow I have never noticed that when Snape yells he apparently turns the same red that a copper cauldron melts at, and my hands are doing something, but wow that flame isn't even blue is it black? What is this Goblin kid doing, and I think his skin is steaming, but that would mean you're like 5 kinds of dead right? And boy was Snape still yelling cause it was getting impressive in a lung capacity way, and it seemed that the Goblin was just keeping cool, but only metaphorically cause it kinda looks like his hands might be on fire, and that flame looks like it is getting blacker, which shouldn't be possible, and quite possibly it is getting hotter, but in an opposite way cause that cauldron doesn't look right at all, and man, oh shit, did he just stick his hand in the cauldron and there's his potion but it looks alright? It is supposed to be light blue, and it is, and, okay, head down, lets just get through this today, ok, man I wish Trevor was here. Oh geez, I just realized that there are some kids screaming, man, they are screaming loud, oh thank god the fire is back to fire color, holy jeez is his cauldron fixing itself, and he rolled up his sleeves, was that all he needed to do, was just roll up his sleeves? That seems unnecessary but totally necessary, shouldn't he have donned armor, but he can't he melt armor too, what is this kid, oh man, oh man, oh man. Just let this be over.

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Professor Snape would later be most displeased to find that there were only two potions that met his requirements at the end of his first lesson. The first from the infuriating Harry Potter, Goblin Boy Who Refused to Do Anything Correctly, and the surprisingly jittery Neville Longbottom, who despite sweating nearly entirely through his shirt, which Snape knew from smell alone, had somehow completed his Potion while everyone else in class had been screaming. The checks he had to put on their potions were only put there at great reluctance.

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Marfoir, known widely as Harry Potter, made his way out of the Potions classroom, sleeves still rolled up from his manipulation of the cauldron to fix it. He hadn't understood the Professor's anger, although he had been wary of it. The man had already proven himself to be at least stealthy, and that kind of skill usually accompanied more unsavory tastes. Regardless of that, his the flame he used had greatly accelerated the potion making, as well as improving its effects, so he didn't understand why everyone had started screaming, nor why Professor Snape had seemed so mad. Surely he knew about the different flames, each having their own use for anything being forged, from armor to potions, and he had seemed familiar with the properties, just angry at its use. Marfoir walked.

Possibly it was because the cauldron had started to melt. Cauldrons weren't exactly cheap, but he had quickly fixed it, once the potion had been retrieved, and surely Snape knew that having been raised by Goblins he would have some mastery of metal; Professor Snape was no child to believe in only rumors and hearsay. And despite the best efforts of the Goblin Nation some of their secrets and real behavior had traveled to the Wizarding World. Nonetheless, it had still been surprising, but that all needed to be put on check, for now he had his Defense Class.

It was not well known that Goblins and Vampires did not mix, and the Goblin Nation had worked hard to keep that information out of the smoke. They were both creatures of the night, the precious metals and magic of the earth drew the Goblins, and the safety and comfort of the dirt drew the Vampires, and that led to eons of strife between the two races. Fortunately or unfortunately the rise of the wizarding community had managed to calm their conflict, mostly by equally decimating both populations, either through their folly as wizards or by more mundane means, usually through the acts of their "muggle" brothers. Either way, with both populations reduced, especially the Vampires (Marfoir grinned at that), their conflict had all but ended, at least as a war. There were still skirmishes, but as humankind had culled a great number of them, there was no longer a scarcity of resources of space.

These thoughts were not of great comfort to Marfoir though, as he made his way down the halls of Hogwarts, the quirky movement of the stairs and stones themselves doing nothing to distract him. He had never personally fought against a Vampire, but they were a deadly species, and very much had a skill set that seemed almost cosmically unfair to the Goblins. Like the Goblins they were fast and skilled with sharp implements, carrying around numerous small daggers on their person that they all seemed to innately be inhumanly skilled with, and while their speed might match the Goblins they had the annoying natural advantage of having greater reach. This was more of an annoyance than anything else. The Goblins had defeated many others, including the humans, through use of their knives and swords, mostly because once a race was introduced to magic, they seemed to forget about anything else. Only the centaurs had the common sense to not discard every single weapon that they had used for millennia once some new shiny toy arrived, and while Goblins were not able to use bows very effectively, as well as them being almost useless in caves, they still respected the Centaurs for their common sense. It had been pitifully easy to rout many a wizard army, the shock of seeing a sword being plunged into your abdomen was the butt of a many a joke in the Goblin vernacular, mostly because it always worked (How do you surprise a wizard 100 times? Don't fight with an easily broken stick 100 times). So fighting against the Vampires, had, in some sense been refreshing at first. A true contest of the bladed weapon, and before the advent of magic across the races, the stories of Goblin and Vampire skill had been exalted with pride and skill. But the Goblin Gods, desiring greed more than anything else, as was befit a goblin, had wanted control and the ability to devour, to own, and so their Bone magic had been created and gifted and cursed upon them, and the Vampires, predators before all else, breakers of the boundaries, those who crossed lines, had, through their gods been blessed and cursed with the skills of the hunter. While Goblin magic could create and destroy and remake the old and make sure the new grew old, the Vampires had developed the skills of misdirection, illusion, and swift retribution.

And so the wars had become cruel and disastrous. The Goblins had operated in a binary, destroy what was there, create what was there, and do it in a monstrously effective way, but the Vampires had played all sides, striding across the binary into the infinite, and their magic had confused and bewildered the Goblin forces, ending with them pushed back and on the move, their nomadic style of life springing up from the destruction of their cities, their homes, forged by inability to grasp what was intangible, while the Vampires made such impossibilities their plaything.

And so, Marfoir was a bit concerned about being in the same room as a Vampire, let alone being taught by one. He was fairly sure he wouldn't be dead by the end of it, but this had also been a surprise, nobody could have predicted that Dumbledore would go with a Vampire, they weren't exactly well received in the wizarding well, not that anything different from their bland homogenous soup of wand flickers went over well, but still, it was a surprising line to cross. Which had always been one of the reasons Dumbledore was feared and respected. The man was unpredictable in an incredibly dangerous way. Hopefully this Vampire lady wouldn't be as unpredictable, although that was akin to wishing a cave wasn't dark.

And in all too short of a time, he was there.

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Hermione Granger was sitting next to Neville Longbottom in their Defense Against the Dark Arts class, busily going over notes from previous years, and wishing that she had spent a little more time researching Vampires. Did they bow? Was it rude to stare at their fangs? Did they have fangs? Could they be in sunlight? The shades weren't drawn, should she go draw them? She couldn't have her teacher set on fire the first day of class, especially not after the rather alarming lack of worthwhile teachers the past 3 years. At least Gildroy had finally been sacked, it had been torture listening to him romanticize his own exploits, and while she had been very pleased to look at him, after a year of his teaching and realizing that he had taught them nothing she had found herself becoming unimaginably bored, despite his hair and eyes and smile. So it would be a darn shame if this teacher was suddenly killed. Plus, it would be exciting to have a female teacher in such a male dominated field. The last Defense of the Dark Arts teacher to be female had been Baba Yaga, and that, apparently, had been memorable times to live in.

And so, as everyone around her was chatting, except for Neville who seemed to be shivering, Hermione went to the windows and started drawing the curtains, determined to have a teacher who survived. She was in the process when the door suddenly opened to reveal no one, and as everyone stared at the empty door, wondering if Hogwarts was getting a bit too quirky, Draco Malfoy suddenly yelped, his voice seemingly an octave too high for his image of barely controlled masculinity.

Everyone turned to look at him, puzzled by the outcry from the rather stoic and impressive heir of the Malfoys, only for several people to gasp, including Neville, at the slender man that was holding a knife at the wizard's throat. It wasn't until he spoke that Hermione stopped herself from slowly drawing the curtains with her eyes still frozen to the gleaming blade that looked to be a hairs length from the throat of Draco Malfoy. At first Hermione didn't hear him, but a second clearing of the throat, which was soft and velvet caught her attention, re-focusing her attention completely to the face of the stranger who held Draco upon the cusp of death. It took Hermione a second, but she realized that it was no man, but a woman, dressed in a suit with her hair cut short and stern in the darkness that had covered the classroom with the curtains now fully drawn.

"Dear, if you could please open those curtains, I'd very much like to show everyone an important lesson."

Hermione hurried to obey, but not before calling up her own, personal shield, which, unbeknownst to her, brought a smile to the stranger's face. And with the advent of the sun streaming into the room, it became clear that Draco was not so stoic right now, he had a white knuckled grip on his desk, and his chest fell and rise at an increasingly rapid pace. The stranger simply smiled at Hermione.

"Now then, what a fascinating idea you had there, Ms..."

"Hermione."

"Ah, Ms. Hermione, now I assume you were drawing the curtains on the off chance that your vampiric teacher might have the slight disability of going up in smoke were she to encounter the powerful rays of the afternoon sun?"

Hermione simply stood there, until, dumbly, she nodded.

"That is so very sweet of you, child, but it is unnecessary. As you can plainly, see I am unhurt by the sun's rays, although it is maybe not the most pleasant feeling, but that has less to do with my own physiology and everything to do with the hangover that I am sporting."

Hermione just nodded, dumbly, one again. However, Draco, who had become increasingly scared, suddenly bucked in his seat, the knife coming perilously close to his throat, "Then what are you doing to me!?" he tried to yell, but it came out more of a choked whisper.

"Oh! Yes, of course the lesson. Now, dear, I'd like it very much if you would cast a spell against me, the most dangerous you can think of, Unforgivables included." At that Draco's face seemed to slide into a grin, he wasn't the type of student that let his chances at revenge go unrequited. But in the back there was a slight chuckle, which Hermione only vaguely realized seemed to come from Harry Potter.

Draco's hand went for his wand, brought it up, facing backwards to unleash some sort of diabolical havoc upon their, apparently, insane teacher and, quite suddenly, his neck erupted into a fountain of blood, the gleaming blade of earlier having been moved so fast that there seemed to be a pause, Draco's skin still unblemished before gushing his very life onto the desk before him. Everyone instantly started screaming, except for Harry Potter and Hermione, who couldn't get the thought out of her head that this was a scene that should be shrouded in darkness, and that she regretted opening the curtains.

Suddenly a loud boom filled the air, directing everyone's attention to the front of the room, where Draco sat, staring at all of them, wide-eyed with a biscuit in his hand, and their bloodthirsty and insane teacher sitting on her desk, casually flipping the knife that, somehow, had not killed their classmate.

"Oh, now wasn't that just a very loud boom? Too loud if you ask me, just horribly loud, and on such a beautiful afternoon, but you dearies were yelling quite loud, and that was making my hangover just ache. A fascinating lesson, don't you agree? It was three fold, and I am so hoping that one of you children could illuminate what exactly those three lessons were?

A group of very scared children stared back at her.

"Well, what about you, dear? The one who had the forethought but misinformation to close the curtains, don't think I've forgotten about your lovely care for my well-being." The teacher pointed at Hermione, crossing her legs and bringing her hand up to lean against her face, head tilted slightly to the side, "You seem like a smart, well to do child, please, take your best guess."

Hermione struggled. She very much did want to answer the question, on the other hand, the blood that had been dripping to the floor from overflowing Draco's desk had disappeared, and now he was just munching on a biscuit, like, well she didn't really know, but he was fucking alive and all that. But all of that quickly got blown away from her years of answering questions, and her body, which wasn't quite as smart as her mind, simply opened her mouth and said, "Knives are very sharp..." Someone giggled, "I mean, I mean, um, knives are an effective weapon?"

The teacher slowly smiled, "Yes, exactly, although I was hoping you might extrapolate. Wands are effective weapons but they, like most ranged weapons, become increasingly useless the closer you get, and I am assuming very few of you have any idea of how to fight in close quarters. Now, there were two other lessons, can you figure them out, Ms. Hermione?"

Now that Hermione had some blood rushing back to her head and her flight or fight instinct wasn't shouting itself to death, she was able to think, and that, fortunately, was her strong suit, "Well, we all thought that Draco had... um, been hurt, and that wasn't true, so is the second lesson that we can be tricked?"

The teacher nodded her approval, "Exactly. Specifically that your eyes can be tricked. Magic is, in itself, a trick, it changes things, moves past what could normally happen and imposes something new. To think that something is real in the face of magic is to believe in a contradiction that upholds reality. It is both right and not-right, but in its practical applications, it simply means that illusion is a large part of our world, and so we must have a way to deal with it. And the last lesson?"

Hermione was puzzled, the last lesson was probably fairly simple to understand, but what their teacher had just said about illusion was far more interesting, still, she could figure that out later, right now she had to answer her insane teacher's question, "That loud noises are also distractions."

The teacher clapped her hands together, "Yes! Very well done, dear, now why don't you take your seat. I am quite proud of you, but you missed something, that second lesson is far more practical than you realize. For there was a 4th lesson, hidden. I said there were three lessons, but words are an illusion as well, they do not and can not represent reality, and yet we allow them to but enough of that. Does anyone know what the fourth lesson was? It has to do with what class we are in. No? You have already all failed it, excluding one, but that was to be expected. But now, there is no fear of failure, so would one of you like to take a guess?"

A hand rose into the air, a Gryffindor lady scrunched up her face and when called upon said, "None of us were brave?"

The teacher laughed, "That is surprisingly close, little Gryffindor. It might be the default answer for your House but, child, that is close. It is not so much bravery thought but what bravery might have made you do. None of you attacked me. There are many of you, and many of you have wands, you could have tried something, sent a message to someone else, transfigured the blade, killed me, but you did not. You allowed me to take your classmate hostage, and furthermore, when you all thought I had killed him, you did not attack then, when there was no danger to his life present. That is the final lesson, and all but one of you failed. Now, onto the actual lesson plan!"

The entire class seemed pretty star struck by that, even Draco who mechanically went and sat down, nearly finished with the biscuit that he had been given, presumably as compensation for having a blade held to his neck and then his murder faked. He would later recall it to be a pretty mediocre biscuit.

But in the back, the Gryffindor lady who had raised her hand, emboldened by almost being right, a rarity Slytherins would say, asked, "Who was it that didn't fail?"

Marfoir had nearly attacked right then and there when the Vampire had attacked, and it had only been the knowledge that she was a teacher at Hogwarts that stayed his hand, but it still didn't stop him from readying some precautions just in case. A single Goblin versus a Vampire was horrible odds for him, and it while it was unlikely that an attack was imminent, this Vampire obviously didn't mind playing fast and loose with the rules.

The ensuing attempt from Malfoy to enact revenge had been cute though, and he had nearly been able to follow some of her movements as she weaved the illusion and whisked Malfoy to the front, although he doubted she had been trying very hard, Dumbledore would not have hired a second rate Vampire to teach Hogwart students. And so with the re-appearance of Malfoy, unharmed, he had stopped his magic and cooled down, not wanting to start another incident like the ones in Potions, especially not after already being subjected to the screaming of children from the Vampires own stunt. Children could scream very loudly.

It wasn't until the Gryffindor girl asked her question that he began to feel some apprehension. Obviously the two of them were aware of each other, the Vampire had made that clear by singling him out as the only person who didn't fail, although it wasn't like he would have been able to do anything even if he had desired to. His precautions had been purely defensive, and she knew that, but now she had the opportunity to single him out publicly. Why? He had no idea, but Vampires were sometimes unpredictable for the sake of the quality.

"Ah, of course. Who wouldn't want to know who it was that managed to find some inner strength, to be so brave? Someone who so desperately put together, in a limited amount of time, a collection of defenses to help his fellow classmates, if only for precious seconds against my terrible might." At this point she let slip a smile, quite grotesque, that was both hungry and content. "It was none other than the famous Harry Potter, Kuro Marfoir, Boy Who Lived. Let's all give a smattering of applause, eh, dearies?"

And so he sat there, as the wizards around him clapped for him, in what he could honestly say was one of the most uncomfortable and nerve-wracking moments of his life, made all the more uncomfortable by the Vampire's smile, and the fearful looks that accompanied the clapping hands of those around him.

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Ron Weasley wasn't having any of this shit. It was bad enough that he had to sit next to some Slytherins. He hadn't learned that it was going to be a class with every House until this morning, and then he had managed to forget about it until he had arrived late and had to sit with the slimiest House around. How could he have forgotten! He would have shown up early, well maybe not, he really needed that snack, but still, he could have at least prepared, or you know, had a witty comeback, or any comeback.

It had been wicked cool to see Malfoy die, and while he wouldn't admit it to anyone he had screamed, but just a little, and it had been a manly scream, like a warcry, really. It had been a warcry.

And why did Malfoy get a biscuit? He hadn't almost gotten illusion blood all over him, he had just been whisked away by that tall, brunette lady, and she was pretty attractive. That suit looked great on her, although her hair pulled back was a little stern for him, and this is what Ron Weasley thought about it as questions were answered and everyone clapped. And it wasn't till the end of class, that Ron spent daydreaming and most everyone else spent learning about a simple illusionary spell that he realized he didn't know his teacher's name. So in a brave yet not very conscious way, Ron raised his hand and asked.

"Professor Millacar." And then she winked.

**AN:**

**Well** fuck me sideways and call me horizontal that shit took a while. Sorry for the fuck-lack of updates peeps. I am trying to pay rent and, more importantly, trying to get my brain to stop being a vacuum of shitty ideas and writing. I do think that this chapter is the second part to the latest, and if I thought I could write at something that wasn't paralyzed-snail speed, I probably would have grouped these two together, but I can't so I didn't.

Big, huge, sloppy thanks to those who pointed out the errors last time (Nyla Norris Filch and HPSBDG). That shit was whack, and hopefully, they are now all fixed. I apologize, especially for misspelling Hermione's name. Fuck. Also, I said the Great Hall is the Great Hearth. So, well, that's sticking, I guess?

At this point, also, I pretty much feel like everything has been set up (except for the Triwizard tournament, fuck me I forgot about that whole thing, fuck). I know a few people were like, "this shit be slow, yo", and I was like, "LET ME BUILD SOME BACKSTORY, DAMMIT." And now I am feeling like some story, some sweet, sweet backstory, has been created. So let's see if we can't get some payoffs going. But I should warn you, that this fic is probably going to be, like, 150,000words or longer, so shit will take time.

As always, if I fucked up, tell me. If you like shit, awesome, tell me. If you wanna call me a fag or something, that'd be sweet. I am lonely.

More than appropriately long hugs,

ian


	7. Chapter 7

Harry had finally made it back to the circle, his prize clutched to his chest, fingers numb and tired, but he was smiling as only a Goblin could smile, all teeth and satisfaction. The circle was small, made up of those who had, as individuals, decided to come and celebrate or give advice, or just witness in him coming to true individuality, as the Goblins know it. Harry's Artisan wasn't there, which, initially he had found weird, who else was he supposed to share this with than the closest thing to a father that the Goblins had? But it had dawned upon him, with some help from his Goblin allies that his Artisan could not be present. For he was celebrating his independence from him, and so him being there would be disingenuous as well as rude.

The circle had only adults in it, some of them liked him, others did not, some respected him, others did not, some were very nearly insane, and some were so rational talking to them was even worse. Goblins always held such a diverse set of opinions, that one of the first nuggets of Goblin wisdom that Harry had come across was, "How many Goblins does it take to light a fire? All of them." It had taken him some time to realize it wasn't because Goblins were supposed to be ineffective, but that they all had different ways of completing tasks. For what use is autonomy and art if it is all squandered on actions that are the same? He was glad that he had learned that lesson before his 7th year.

Harry made his way into the circle, his prize contained by him and his pride. He didn't know where exactly it was from or how old it was, but he was fairly certain it had significance. He had seen some runes carved onto it that spoke of construction, and construction was always significant to the Goblins. So he had high hopes that his prize might win, if winning was even an option (although that would be weird if it didn't, almost every Goblin interaction had a winner, competition was too important to their way of life).

He stepped into the middle of those around him. It was a simple place that this ceremony was being held. The floor was simply dirt, the entrances to caves all around them with the soft glow of some fluorescent lichen and bright torches providing light. Not that he needed that anymore, Harry thought wryly, he had been forced to get quite good with the sonar magic to work his way through the nearly pitch black tunnels. Those around him wore what they wanted, there was no specific dress to be constrained by, and they did not all make the same movements, or say the same things. Some of them simply stood there, softly touching the knives secreted about their person, others talked amongst each other, and some simply stared.

There was only one officiator for his ceremony, and it was usually someone who did not know the person making their way through to adulthood, that way there could be no dependence upon him or her for a good ruling. It was simply another adult, judging a fellow adult for their work.

Harry had finally made it to the center of the ring. He stopped and very carefully placed what he had brought at his feet. And then he also unsheathed his dagger, hidden between his shoulders, and placed that by it. He was now disarmed, and only then did the officiator reveal himself, so that his work could be judged with no threat to those who did the judging.

It was a fairly dangerous business to insult those armed with numerous knives, and it had only taken a couple of centuries for the Goblin people to figure out a good solution for that particular kind of fatality. So, now, disarmed, Harry simply waited, as the Goblin in front of him, unknown to him, began his investigation.

After several long minutes, while Harry repeatedly catalogued everything that could go wrong, the man removed a knife, from where Harry did not see, and murmured something causing a pale glow to illuminate his arm, Bone magic. Suddenly the light dispersed, although Harry did not know what it that had been done. And then, as he tried to puzzle out the spell's effects, the Goblin gave him a slight smile, "An individual has done well rescuing this from the bowels of the earth, from Essum himself. You sacrifice much to be here, to be with us and against us. And so, to balance it all out, for one to rise another must fall."

Harry was delighted. He had been referred to as an individual (the rest was unimportant), so he knew he had passed. He assumed that he would know if he had won only when the other Goblin trying to ascend to adulthood made it back, but it seemed that they had lost, which was sad, but he had made it! His Artisan would be so proud, and the others would be jealous, and now maybe less Goblins would look so strangely at him, and he could start learning and harvesting his own Bone magic, and was there anything cooler than that, and what had been-

Suddenly his thoughts were cut off as the sharp cracking sound of a vase breaking. The Goblin who had judged him was hacking away at his prize his knife splitting it into pieces again and again. Harry cried out and tried to save it, but by the time he could scramble his way to where the Goblin had taken the vase to do his terrible deed it was too late. Harry tried to take the pieces, to put them back together, and regain at least the semblance of his prize, that which had made him an adult, his first piece of work as an individual. But when it became clear that the vase was beyond all repair, he looked up in fury, eyes clouded by tears, ready to fight the Goblin who had wrought this, but there was no one there. The Goblin had disappeared into the folds of the caves, and only those who had come to witness stood around him, watching him.

Harry stood and walked forward mouth open, only to have a Goblin, face flickering in the torchlight, raise a fist to his mouth, a crude way of telling Harry to shut up. Harry stopped, looking around to the others that stood around him in the circle. A few of them moved closer, allowing him to step between them, to join the circle. Harry took one last look around, then looked at the pile of debris that had been his prize, and then walked to the edge of the circle, taking the place where those who had witnessed his defeat had made space. And then they just stood there.

Harry didn't understand what he had done wrong. The Goblin had called him an individual, was he not one? He didn't think that it was a good sign his piece had been smashed to bits, but now he was in the circle. Weren't only adults allowed in the circle? But no one was looking at him, did he fail or succeed? Was there another step? He had never heard of another step before. And he had, according to his Artisan, been told of all the requirements to compete and succeed in this. These were the thoughts that ran around in Harry's head, chasing each other, as he and the others stood in a circle, waiting for something.

Later, though Harry could not say how much later, there were sounds of someone approaching. Covered in soot and ash and dirty and tired the other Goblin who Harry was competing against made his way to the circle, in his hands, wrapped tightly in his fists was a small dagger, gleaming in the light that bounced off the cavern walls. Harry watched him break the circle's barrier, heading toward the middle. He might have said something, a warning, but then he caught sight of the dagger itself. It was strong. It was small, for sure, but it was also tight and durable, it had the look of something that would outlive the darkness itself, and in that moment, Harry was sure that he had lost. His vase would have been destroyed by such a dagger, and they had known, and that was why his prize had been destroyed, to be the balance to this Goblin's ascension. Harry's shoulders slumped. Here was the winner, and it was not him.

The other Goblin had finally made it to the middle of the circle, and like Harry, he placed the dagger lovingly on the ground before him before disarming himself of his knife. This time though a different Officiator came out from the darkness. This female Officiator also deeply investigated what had been offered up, and after what must have felt like forever, as it had for Harry, she finally looked down to the Goblin kid and said, smiling, "An individual did a great job forging this from the flames of Evomere. You have sacrificed much to be here, to be with us and against us..." Harry recognized that speech and his own happiness of that moment on the kid's face, now made adult, over the precious debris of his own vase.

"He deserves it" thought Harry, having difficulty stopping his eyes from tearing up. But he would be happy for his comrade, and later, once again, he would try and succeed this time to become an adult. The Goblin kid, now adult, was looking up at the ceiling to the cavern, eyes closed as he enjoyed the relief, so he did not see the Officiator take out her dagger, murmuring just like Harry's did, and cast the same exact spell, but Harry did. Why was she doing that? Wasn't the kid the winner? His vase had been destroyed, were they both going to lose? No, no, no that wasn't fair, and he wouldn't see his competitor go through what he had.

And so, Harry, without really realizing it had suddenly broken out of the line, yelling, and tried to step in front of the Goblin Officiator, as the newly made adult Goblin, still kneeling on the ground, looked up with wide eyes.

Harry pushed forward, eyes on the dagger as it fell slowly toward the knife in the dirt, a knife that his competitor had probably poured as much effort and love as Harry had into getting that vase, and he would save it. There didn't need to be some kind of give and take. You could have him win, he didn't need to lose that dagger, anyone here could tell it meant so much to him. And so Harry kept his eyes on the dagger, until it suddenly disappeared.

There was a reason that full grown Goblins rarely went out into the world, for they were a dangerous creature, and while they could respect the power of a Wizard, especially with their great numbers, they could not bear the arrogance, and a single Goblin, especially with surprise on their side, could very easily start a colossal incident. Luckily, few adult Goblins went out into the world, and while Harry had heard stories about this, knew it rationally, that adult Goblins were dangerous and to be given respect, and that they did not suffer arrogance, for it had been that which consigned their Gods to be cursed and exiled, he hadn't really known it until now.

One split second the knife had been in his sights and in the next he was facedown in the dirt, feeling a small trickle of blood along his back, but somehow, no pain, though he assumed he had been cut. Next to him was his competitor, staring, shocked, at Harry and his knife, which had been sliced into pieces.

Harry only had a moment to figure out what exactly had happened to him before he was hoisted to face the visage of the female Officiator. "An individual had better choose his actions wisely. An impossibility when one is so new and naive", was hissed into Harry's face. "Do not presume too much, individual, you know little." And with that she threw Harry back down onto his back, the cut that he had presumed to be there suddenly flaring with pain. The circle of Goblins behind and around them just stared.

The female Officiator was then joined by the male Officiator and while neither seemed very pleased, they still both smiled, showing teeth, "You are now both individuals. Learn this well: You will struggle in life, and you will fail. This first time, you have finally wrought something of your own, and it was good, but now it is nothing. This is the cycle of things. For while creation lies within Evomere and Eluvies it is Essum who is most powerful." And with that they both walked away, leaving two shell shocked Goblin adults behind, still surrounded by a circle of their, now, peers.

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It was the second week of school and Hogwarts loomed over the representatives of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, its great doors like some sort of cavernous mouth, though the cheery torches and the countenance of one Hagrid, Game Keeper, kept it from seeming too ominous. Still, while the bright young children of Britain might see Hogwarts as a home away from home, its hallways comforting, the portraits hilarious, and the food delicious, to foreigners it was a monument to the perceived superiority of Britain's wizards and witches. And they were all there to try their best to combat that image.

Each child of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang knew the history of Britain, their meteoric rise with Dumbledore at the helm and the crash and fall of Europe under Britain's other stars, Grindewald and Voldermort, the former having waged such destruction upon Europe that it had only seemed fair that the second Dark Wizard to come from Britain's shores should, at the very least, stay there. Sure, there had been sympathy, gifts, and kind words, but it also seemed right and fair. Finally a dark wizard from the island nation had kept his fury and wrath local, rather than spreading it globally.

Some blamed the outpouring of Dark Wizards from Britain on the abandonment of their more progressive wizards, who had left the stormy shores of England for the expansive stretches of the Americas, giving up the fight for a more modern English wizarding world. And while it was unclear if that had been the right decision for the, now, American Wizards, it had certainly rocked the European community, as the rising star of British Wizardry had gone hand in hand with the notions of Pure Blood, Ancient and Noble Houses, and the cementing of ways that may have benefited greatly from new and creative ways of thinking.

Other thought that maybe it was simply a curse of the British Isles, to be so great and so temperamental. For Merlin had come from there, but so had Morgana, and it was a favorite place of the Queen of the Seelie, Titania, but in her wake followed the treacherous and cruel Mab. And most recently it had been Voldermort, and the hidden and mysterious Boy Who Lived, all of it under the gaze of the great Dumbledore, who, while gifted, had seemed to cloister himself away as simply a headmaster. It was an oddity.

For even Dumbledore, whose kindness was just as famous as his power, seemed stuck in the mire and mud of old traditions. Those reportedly closest to him whispered that he was simply biding his time, while his enemies accused him of being a dunderheaded, old fool, but those who loved him said that he had no wish to once again try to enforce his beliefs upon a population, for he had tried that, once, and it had not gone well. Most people though, they believed the closest to him, and they feared him for that. But the children of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang feared nothing, and so they stepped into the mouth of Hogwarts, ready to fight with fire and ice and to win the cup and to show... that even stars fall.

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Fleur Delacour concentrated. She was always concentrating. She had to be, for if she did not, if she grew distracted or passionate or fearful then she would entrap those around her. She would snare them in the power that grew from her heart, that cold center that spread its icy fingers and rather than repeal those with its frosty tips, it would bring them in closer, numbing them to everything else, until the cold filled them. She had never had anyone else describe what they felt around her as cold. But she knew that was what it really was.

It was cold itself. For it was only in the deepest of winter that people who would lie down and sleep and die, unable or unwilling to feel the danger. Heat would make people back off, it would scare and incite action, but what she had, it did not push people away, no that was her, what she had drew them in, and when they were drawn in they ceased to live, ceased to be, or at least be themselves, and that was as good as death.

It also made her quite lonely.

It did not help that she had been born beautiful, and while she had no qualms with her attractiveness, except that many around her seemed to equate it with qualities that she did not possess. She was not innocent nor was she not powerful, she did not like gossip nor did she want to be gossiped about, and yet her skin, the most superficial part of her, the tip of the iceberg that lurked beneath was what seemed to color the views of those around her. Her blonde hair said to others, "I don't know much, could you teach me?", her blue eyes, "I've never done a bad thing in my life", and her slender figure, "I need protection", and all the while as they came closer the Veela part of her heritage ate them up.

And so she concentrated. She stepped into the halls of Hogwarts, with her face smooth and unfeeling, holding back something that held its power in the very lines and cracks of the planet, sunken low into the dirt and darkness.

Behind her came the rest of the Beauxbaton students, and behind them all the great stature of their Headmistress, a person whose physical abilities paled in comparison to her wit and strength of mind, but who was to forever be judged by the outside.

She was one of Fleur's only close friends. Her not so secret heritage having some manner of resistance to what afflicted Fleur.

Fleur stepped forward, past the halls, into the great mouth of Hogwarts, letting it swallow her up. Around her, the thrum of the magic that breezed through the fortress was relentless, and she felt herself relax slightly. Enough ambient magic in a place could run as a slight buffer with her own, implacable siren song. It couldn't block it totally nor could it remove its effect from someone, but it would let her at least halfway enjoy this experience. Although she had heard that it could also amplify it, but that seemed like a much rare occurrence. It was a strange feeling though, as if the school's own energy was consuming hers, the energy that surrounded and lived in it reducing her own.

Beauxbatons was a newer, well, relatively newer, place of schooling, so while it certainly was a powerful place, it did not have the near sentient thrum of Hogwarts. It had yet to gain the quirks of a nearly living building, no switching staircases, no floating lights, and no changing paths. And so Fleur made her way through the hallways, to where Hogwarts led them, its tingle as it reduced her aura's power a welcome respite, despite the feeling as the darkness of its halls spread across her shoulders.

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Viktor Krum walked on the balls of his feet, ready to leave the ground and soar, let the fire that burned in him take him up and up and up to the Sun where he belonged, where any true progeny of the Krum family would find their solace, as his father and his father had said before him. They could, he had heard the stories, trace their ancestry to the great Daedalus, and with that greatness came the desire to ascend, to touch the fire that held itself aloft in the starry sky. He had been ecstatic to leave the ship that had brought them here, the infernal contraption traveling underwater, rather than in the open air, gliding along the sea, as he had assumed they would travel. But apparently it had been quicker to go underneath, and his Headmaster was, if anything, concerned about efficiency.

The physicality of Hogwarts was incredibly imposing, but it was lessened by the sheer warmth that seemed to exude from its walls. As Viktor made his way inside, the warmth swept over him, like being high in the sky on a warm day, the bright sun shining, and he felt surprisingly at home as he stepped into the cavern that was Hogwarts main entrance.

He had briefly gleamed a quick look at the quidditch pitch before stepping foot in the stone hallways, and it looked…. adequate. The one he practiced on with his team was by far larger and had several smaller fields near it, where you could practice specific plays on a smaller field, allowing for quick scrimmages between 3 or 4 players, while the rest might ease themselves upon the grass, content with being on the ground and relaxing. Viktor had even had them build a specific course just for him, where spelled wooden dummies would throw things at him, balls would fly at inhuman speeds and he would have to catch him. Only their premiere chaser had been able to also complete the course. And he had never wished to do it again. Viktor did it every week (although he did not always make it through), and he would miss its treacherous claws against the bright blue sky.

The fellow Durmstrang men around Viktor stayed away from him, walking a couple of feet to the side of him or in front of him or behind him. People tended to stay away from him, on the ground because he wanted to be in the air, and in the air because he never wanted to be back on the ground. He had a quick temper, but then again, who wouldn't being forced to walk and crawl and live under earth like a mole? It was not the way of the Krum family, even his mother spat on the ground, cursing it for its heaviness and thickness and brown color. For while all of his family longed for the air, the warmth, especially the warmth, they were always thrown to the ground, like Daedalus before them. Reaching for the sky comes with its own set of problems, the main one being no one could stay up there, close to the sun and its bright rays, for to get too close would bring you down, and it was this cycle that had given birth to the Krum temper.

Only his family truly understood, and that was why the Krum family was so very large, because if you couldn't find friends, then it was best that you make them. And Krum women were very good at making Krum babies, although more often than not it ended with tragedy, the majority of their wives and mothers having forced themselves to be as near to the sun as possible during birth, a complicated obstacle even for accomplished wizards. Viktor himself had been born in free fall, and he had nearly died as his first bout of accidental magic had been to propel himself forward, feeling the air and sun on his newly revealed skin. His mother loved telling that story, and he loved to hear it.

He would miss his mother's stories at Hogwarts, but he didn't think it would be a huge deal, at least he'd finally have some interaction with women again. The Men Only School of Durmstrang had been a difficult transition for him. Krum men were a rarer breed, simply because they tended to be a bit more arrogant, and the sun and wind has no tolerance for such things.

Krum walked forward and stepped into the shadow of Hogwarts.

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Marfoir sat in his room, provided by the Headmaster. It was sparse in its furniture but colorful, even exceedingly so, in regards to the wall. He had requested it be sparsely furnished, not needing much, and with the concern that something might have been assigned to him, he wanted it to be as little as possible, although Hogwarts at this point might forgive him, he didn't want to make any unworthy moves against the ancient construct. But, while the Headmaster had certainly followed through in regards to the furniture, it was the walls where you could see his touch.

The walls were nearly covered in 360 degrees, with paintings, both that moved and didn't, as well as inspirational posters, splashes of color, and all manners of things. He hadn't yet tried to discover what several of the gadgets did, although he suspected they were for play rather than a spy network or something equally as sinister. The Headmaster knew well enough that such an invasion would not be well looked on.

Sitting as his desk, he had penned a letter to his Artisan, describing his first week, his expectations, and his continued work towards their goal. Things maybe had not progressed as far as he had liked, the continued classes in Charms being a huge disability to him, simply because he tended to leave the class burning and ashamed, the perversion of the items that they practiced on too much for his current constitution. The entire thing involving the train and his current relationship with the Weasleys might be beneficial it might not. He suspected that it all had to do with how things turned out, the current status of the Twins and himself could really lend itself to either side.

The most pressing matter was the balance. And luckily, for the most part, the contrary side of him had required little acting. It was a bewildering world that the wizards and witches lived in, one that seemed to ignore the noble properties of the environment around them. And while he had always felt that the Goblin's concerns about the wizards' arrogance must be exaggerated, he could, now, assuredly say that, if anything, they had not been concerned enough. It was quite staggering.

He also spent a generous amount of time cursing that he had to be here, doing this, but it was more to vent. He understood the stakes, and it would definitely all be worth it. He hoped. He really hoped so. And with that last thought, he sat in his room, staring at the walls that burned with garish colors and waited for dinner.

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Dinner was a particularly exciting affair, although so far ever dinner had been exciting. There wasn't a day that passed that didn't culminate in a dinner at Hogwarts where everyone just lost it, and either started a food fight, propelled, dangerously, by boisterous magic, descended into a shouting match between two or more Houses (except for the time that Gryffindor somehow had a shouting match all by itself, and no one could tell who it was attributed to), or just gossiped like it was the last day on Earth. (The Gryffindor shouting match was summarily blamed upon the Twins, and had snuggly ascended into a bit of a legendary event, either of brilliance (according to the Twins) or idiocy (any Slytherin)).

And tonight was absolutely no exception, especially considering the introduction of a bunch of foreigners who were all new, shiny, interesting, and pretty/hot or just as wired as the rest of Hogwarts due to them embarking to an unknown place so saturated with magic that the very paths that they walked twisted and bended willy nilly, like some sort of four dimensional mobius strip.

The Hogwart students had been told beforehand that at dinner the representatives from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would be formally introducing themselves, and in a society where there was a mixture of magic and ancient customs, this was interpreted as probably going to be, as a particularly brave Hufflepuff put it, "totally badass". This was firmly agreed upon, although many were surprised that a Hufflepuff had voiced it.

And so, the Hogwarts students, at their tables waited for what passed as quiet among them, eager to see what amounted to a show that would present new and fresh, intelligent meat for them to gossip about, learn about, and maybe even sloppily make out with. "Teenagers with magic", sighed every Professor except the twinkling and grinning Dumbledore.

Suddenly the doors of the Great Hearth crashed open as the fire clad students of Durmstrang rushed in. Their Headmaster, Igor Karkaroff led them, a wreath of fire clung to his shoulders, increasing the breadth of his already large shoulders. Across his eyes were goggles, charcoal black and silver, sitting heavily on his face, leaving after images of ash as he swung his head to regard the entirety of the space. He was pale, snow and ice, but in his eyes the same flames that burned across his shoulders lived, and while it was clear magic was being used to accentuate the effect, some of it was himself, alone. Heavy footsteps rang out, as the collective gasp of the Hogwarts students seemed to attract the fire to them, and so, Karkaroff plowed forward, wisps of steam coming from his boots.

Behind him, matching his pace, the men and women and teenagers and small, adorable kids of Durmstrang followed behind him, ordered in age, various enchantments having been cast upon them, that had a variety of effects, from their hair appearing to be on fire, to creating a billowing cloud of ash that molded itself into fierce and creative shapes. Lynxes, goats, and yetis, all made of ash, burst from the clothes, boots, and hair of the Durmstrang representatives, clawing their way forward to the students seated only to, at the last moment, extinguish themselves, revealing the sigil and sign of Durmstrang, a flame undying in a torrential storm, the contrast of it heavy in the warmth and protection of Hogwarts' great hearth.

Three fourths of the way into the hearth, Karkaroff and his students stopped, the last child in the lineup producing one more ashen beast, a small house cat, that simply rubbed against the child's leg, before poofing in a cloud of ash that made her sneeze, the quiet that had followed Karkaroff's halt of motion broken by the sound, as well as her sheepish grin that followed. Karkaroff looked back, sternly, although some caught the edge of his lips curl in a slight smile before resuming his air of seriousness, the flames on his shoulders still not abated, despite the enchantments on the other students having been removed or drained of all their power.

Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, stood up, face serious, eyes in mischief, and began to welcome those who had come to his home. He looked at Igor Karkaroff, who had charges like he had charges, and he looked into his eyes, behind the charcoal and silver goggles, and he saw nothing beyond them.

The Durmstrang students and Headmaster were seated quickly, a table already prepared for them, bearing their sigil and sign, starting with the youngest first, who had scrambled quickly for her seat, blushing heavily due to her sneeze, the red of her cheeks seeming appropriate to the fire that had and was so part of her school. Chatter was also emboldened, once seats had been taken, and many of the older students were incredibly impressed by the magic that had been unleashed, in such a casual way. Some wrote it off as illusion, others that Karkaroff was a demon, but a few noticed that where Karkaroff had tread the stones themselves were singed, and they wondered at the power it took to abate the hunger of power, to tame it to a person, even for a small amount of time.

All musing was interrupted by the slow movement of the great doors that led to where the students sat and dined, a slight wind seemed to move them, though the doors that moved were exceedingly heavy, and from behind them stepped the enormous Olympe Maxime, but her feet made nary a sound, and she seemed to melt and glide through the doors, behind her the students that were under her care also glided in, none of their feet seemingly touched the ground, the boys were just as graceful as the girls, the young ladies as the young men, but all of them, despite their dainty approach, wore the markings and dressings of knights, full armor with swords and spears none of it seeming to encumber them and, in total, 30 of them. The armor was magnificent in its construction, though no one could tell if it was real of an illusion. Those that carried it seemed to do so as naturally as they others might carry their books, and had they not been practically dancing their way through the hall it might have been menacing. With their strides into the room came the barest hint of cold and winter and bits of frost seemed to catch the light on the tips of their weapons or the glinting armor on their their banner was a young boy, near the back, and on the banner, shining in magical light, the crest of Guillaume de Montauban, and as the Professors and Headmaster of Hogwarts saw that, some smiled, some frowned, but only a few noticed.

Madame Olympe and her students walking lightly, suddenly began to walk up into the air itself, a cold gust of wind propelling them softly upwards, as if travelling on a road that no one could see, their movements became more graceful, their steps becoming a sort of dance, that slowly picked up, the armor they were clad in providing no resistance. Up and up they went, swirling around, some used their weapons as part of the dance, beautiful in its clarity and poise, but at some point in the dance, those of Beauxbatons began to form lines, the child holding the banner in the middle back, those with spears beside him, and the eldest of the group arranging them besides Madame Maxime and Fleur Delacour, who had unsheathed a brilliant blade at some point during the dance wielding it as a part of her intricate dance. And then they were lined in ranks of battle, hovering above those seated, nearly 8 feet in the air, all still, the air, the swords, the knights, the banner, and those who watched.

And suddenly with a sharp smile from Maxime, they all dropped from the air, their armor and swords and frames suddenly heavy as they crashed to the ground with a heavy booming that filled with the space with sound, only to be suddenly overpowered by a heavy battle chant that came from the Beauxbaton students. The ground rumbled from the force of it, no dainty steps or frilly dance in the stance or eyes of the French students, as Madame Olympe Maxime stood proud at her full height and weight, her bearing of power, as the wind, that had been gentle and slightly chill before, suddenly rattled those in the hearth, nearly freezing everything in its whirlwind but the fire that burned in the chant of the knights of Beauxbatons, in Combat of the Thirty, shouted together, "Bois ton sang, Anglais, la soif te passera."

Many of the students jumped at this, and only some understood, but their fright was quieted when Dumbledore again rose and spoke his words of greeting to the knights arrayed before him, still poised for combat, until their Headmistress and General nodded her head and smiled upon her soldiers, who relaxed at her countenance. And yet, when Dumbledore tried to catch Maxime's eyes, all he could see was the wind and cold that belied their fiery entrance, coming from both Fleur Delacour, who remained at her General's side, and the General herself. Ignoring the intrusion the part Giantress, who walked with heavy steps, went to the table set for her and her students.

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It wasn't until much later that night that the two Headmasters joined by the Headmistress gathered around the roaring flame of the Goblet of Fire. They stood silent for a moment, the shadows casted by the flames of the Goblet twisting their shadows around the room, and if one of their eyes had strayed from the flames, they might have seen their shadows writhe and fight, Dumbledore's shadow fighting a shadow so much like his own, twins on opposite sides, and the space between them so far, or Karkaroff's shadow which wrestled what appeared to be a mountain, dwarfed by its immense size but seemingly unconcerned with such a disparity, and finally Madame Maxime's which turned upon itself, tearing and gnashing its own teeth, only to become larger, more full, more vibrant, and then begin the process over again.

But maybe they had already seen such visions, for the three magic users kept their eyes on the flames, and at some unspoken signal, unleashed from their various persons their wands. Dumbledore's swept a series of intricate, interlocking circles, all directed directly at the flames, Maxime's movements were wide, varied, utilizing her reach and height to come from all the most of obtuse angles, and finally there was Karkaroff, who got up close to the Goblet, punching his spells, light, agile, swift, and even with feints, the way a boxer might attack. Whatever the purpose of the spells it seemed that they produced acceptable results from those gathered, and from there the atmosphere relaxed, an old cloak (it appeared) was thrown over the Goblet of Fire, lights were raised, and tea brought in, from some dark corner.

Three of the most powerful pillars of education in the world sat together and ate some biscuits and sipped some tea, each enjoying a period of silence that so rarely comes in their line of work.

"And what of the Fourth in this contract", Igor demanded, breaking the silence, "have they also worked their own spells over the Goblet? Are they satisfied?"

"They did not. They said that it was to be trusted that wizards as esteemed and powerful as us would be more than enough to make sure that the tournament was fair and equal." Albus quietly spoke, his nose deep into his tea, reveling in the warmth of it. Igor huffed at that, downing his tea in a large gulp, only to look at his empty cup and sigh briefly, forlorn.

"I should hope that their words find us to be as powerful and esteemed as they seem to think we are, Olympe chuckled, sipping her tea quickly before it cooled down from the winter that clung to her. "And what of the child who will represent the Fourth in this? Will he be up to the task?"

"He is... angry, scared, combative, uncaring, and repulsed by our 'arrogance' and magic, but he has passion, and I do not think he would like to lose." Albus looked down at his tea, smiling, "I suspect that he will surprise us all."

"Have you ever suspected differently, Albus? You never change." Igor's words were accompanied by a wave of his hand. And with some quiet chuckling, the three continued to sit, as the next day started, and the TriWizard Tournament, now made Quadric, officially began.

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Author Notes:

Almighty Odin in the sky, gals and guys, as well as those whose gender identity has more to do with glitter and sequins, this shit took a right long time to get out. Deep, unending apologies of a dark and depth kind for that, I had a really difficult time figuring shit out for this.

I'd like to thank TMNinjaGinga for his/her/their review. It made me all tingly inside, and it also got me to fucking sit down and write some more. TMNinja was the most recent, but they are certainly not the one I love above all others. I'd gladly rub any of your genitals all over my face for the amazing thought and effort you put into any review that you may have sent me, even if all it said was, "this good. me like." Send me your genitals*, I will rub them on myself, and then I will send them back. I won't even make you pay for postage. Straight up, homies. You know who you are.

Anyway, I should also mention that once I've completed ten chapters I will be going back and editing all the previous chapters, mostly because I think I'm pretty bad for this, and then also because oh my god, chapter 1 is shitty as fuck. So yeah, look out for that in the coming years. : /

Oh, right, quick note. Karkaroff is in charge of a bunch of children. If he was super evil and liked to eat/kill children, people probably wouldn't send their children to his school. He can't be all bad, but he can certainly have a very different philosophy that will cause friction, tension, sexy-tension, and problems. Evil villains who are one dimensionally bad do not oversee 11 year olds who then go on to become not-corpses. Or, at least, that is what I think, then write, then you read, and now you have to think it too. Power, power, power.

Also, if you so desire, please send me your thoughts on what you think is going to happen in this story. I am really interested, and if you actually want me to, I'll probably answer any questions you have. But I will double check, cause I don't really mind giving out spoilers, but I won't give out everything, and I will try not to give you things you don't ask for. 3

*I might do other weird shit to your genitals. You'll never know.


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